San Cayetano
by Captain Weirdo
Summary: Once upon a time there was a king. Things sort of went downhill from there.
1. Chapter 1

The truth was that he hated her.

Viscount Arthur Mabrey looked down from the huge window at the woman strolling through the palace gardens below. His mouth went dry and he felt the flutter in his gut. It was all too familiar. He always felt like this when he was anywhere near her. The effect she had on him was only one of the reasons he hated her.

She was so perfect, so he wanted so very badly to have her.

When they were younger and his friend, the Crown Prince, had married his arranged-for bride, Mabrey had barely acknowledged the placid young woman who would someday be his queen. She was lovely, of course, but there was nothing particularly compelling about her. She was just another in a long line of pretty faces and empty heads as far as the young Viscount was concerned.

With the passage of time, however, things changed. The people of Genovia came to love and revere their royal couple and the Queen became more involved in the actual work of government. The Queens who ruled Genovia before her had been little more than figure heads and fashion plates. The Kings made all the decisions and actually ruled the land. The Queens simply looked good and were charming hostesses. Clarisse Renaldi had somehow managed to change five hundred years of history and precedence within less than a decade as Queen. That didn't set well with the Viscount. Women had no place in either the board room or the throne room in his estimation.

Mabrey knew King Rupert trusted his wife and her judgment. The Queen was quite a manipulator and had woven her husband too tightly around her little finger, he often thought. Several times over the years, Mabrey had subtly tried to show King Rupert how his wife was controlling him – changing him and his policies. For the most part his efforts were unrewarded. The King was oblivious to the Queen's overarching influence.

Regardless of how much Mabrey disliked Queen Clarisse, he couldn't deny that over the past few years something had changed with her. She had come into her own, somehow. The quiet competence she exuded as a young woman had morphed into a confident power and aura of authority. As the years went by she changed from a somewhat shy, yet unmistakably lovely young girl into a cogent and commanding woman of statuesque beauty.

Despite the changes she'd made which sparked the Viscount's baser interests, she had never warmed to her husband's friend. Mabrey knew she didn't trust him and that infuriated him. He took great pains to insure that neither she nor the King had any inkling of how much he truly disliked her. In his darker moments he'd imagined what it would be like to take her – was it possible that she could be that aloof and disinterested when she was flat on her back? The unapproachable nature and the coldness she exhibited made him want to mar her perfection somehow. Mabrey wasn't in love with his Queen – far from it. He didn't even like her. But there was no denying that she had thoroughly captivated him. He felt a primal need to best her, to mark her as his own - to dominate and subdue that chilly perfection, that icy demeanor that refused to acknowledge him and his ultimate superiority. He would have her – of that, he had no doubt - someday, somehow. Arthur Mabrey was not a man who accepted failure. He went after what he wanted and he got it. No matter what it took.

Before he realized what he was doing, Mabrey's callous laughter echoed against the window panes. He glanced around, but no one else was in the room. He returned his gaze to the garden, only this time his eyes settled on another figure. One of the Queen's gardeners. As Mabrey watched, the man in a wide-brimmed straw hat came alongside the Queen and appeared to be asking her a question about the roses she was inspecting.

'Stupid man,' Mabrey thought. 'Why does she tolerate his presence? He is the picture of insolence – how dare he approach her like that?' His anger seethed and although he would never admit it, he was actually jealous of the gardener. The Queen turned to face the the man when he spoke to her. She favored him with a brilliant smile and her gestures and expression indicated her pleasure in answering the question he'd asked. If he were truthful, Mabrey would admit that he couldn't remember a single time she'd ever smiled at him – a real smile. She barely tolerated his presence, much less deigned to talk with him for any length of time.

She hated him and was scarcely able to hide it. He was tormented by her and was hardly able to contain himself.

Mabrey's focus on the Queen and his inner demons was resolutely quelled when the King's secretary knocked on the door and called him into the monarch's private office. Rupert Renaldi smiled broadly at his old friend and motioned him to a deep leather chair in the sitting area of the office, away from the formality of the desk. The secretary left the room, leaving the two men on their own.

"Scotch?" Rupert asked, reaching for a decanter on a silver tray sitting on the coffee table. Mabrey nodded.

The room was quiet for several minutes. The King didn't speak. He stared at the amber liquid swirling in the fine crystal glass and seemed to be thinking of how he wanted to proceed. Finally he looked Mabrey in the eye.

"How rich do you want to be, Arthur?"

"How rich is too rich, Your Majesty?" Mabrey countered.

"Exactly, my friend. Exactly." Rupert laughed and downed his drink with a flourish. "I have a proposal for you, Mabrey. Have you ever heard of the San Cayetano casinos?"

For the next half hour, the King filled the Viscount in on the details of his plan for membership in the San Cayetano financial consortium. Renaldi explained how he needed a front man – someone to handle his business, while allowing the Crown to be distanced from the shady business group. In exchange for the Viscount's service, the King would be more than willing to share profits.

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Arthur. I've been involved with the fringes of this group for many years, but more as a customer than as an investor."

Mabrey smiled at the understatement. He was well aware of the King's love for games of chance and the accouterments of a weekend at exclusive gambling clubs. He'd even accompanied the King on a few of these trips.

"I've been approached for an investment in a new San Cayetano Casino project. The potential for return is enormous. They need both my money and my political contacts. I can give them both, but I need someone to filter the money for me and to act as a go-between. You're just the man for the job, Arthur.

"The Cayetano cartel is not the most open and above board of companies. It would cause quite a scandal for the King of Genovia to be too closely linked to them. That's why I need your help. You will be the figurehead – the front man – and I will supply the funds and whatever influence I can."

"And in return, Your Majesty?"

"In return, you invest however much of your own money that you wish. I will make sure you are appointed to the most powerful committees in parliament, especially those that involve relations with countries where the San Cayetano does business. It will be a huge boost to your political career. And your fortune will easily double. Acting as my agent you will become both rich and powerful."

Mabrey knew there must be a downside. He knew Rupert Renaldi too well not to suspect that. But, at the moment, he couldn't figure out what it could be. And in addition to the promise of power and wealth, this would no doubt mean more time spent at the palace and that in turn might mean… He didn't even bother to finish the thought, but smiled wryly. "I can't think of any reason to refuse, Your Majesty."

Rupert laughed heartily. "I was sure you wouldn't, old man!" They decided on a clandestine meeting at Mabrey's estate later that month to hash out the details of their first transaction. In the meantime, the King would alert his contacts that Mabrey would be acting for him.

"I can't thank you enough for this, Arthur," Rupert told him. "We will both make obscene amounts of money through this deal, and I couldn't do it on my own. I owe you. You will have to let me know how I can reward you."

Mabrey glanced out of the office windows, taking in the view of the gardens beyond. "I'm sure I'll think of something, Your Majesty."

_______________________________________________________________________

Within a short few months, the business details had been arranged and Mabrey was spending a considerable amount of time, not to mention his own money, on the cartel's business. The profits were good, for himself as well as the King.

True to his word, King Rupert had appointed Mabrey to several powerful committees and Mabrey was becoming a power broker in the Genovian Parliament. He spent more time than ever at the palace. Given the Viscount's penchant for manipulation and power, Rupert came to rely on him more and more.

The Queen, however, remained unimpressed with the Viscount and impervious to his influence. She always managed to vacate the vicinity whenever he was present. She wasn't rude, simply detached. And that was what really got under his skin. If she'd had the decency to be spiteful towards him, or to at least acknowledge his presence, it would have been better than being ignored. She acted as if he were completely unimportant.

She may not appreciate him, but she certainly had to admit he was quickly becoming one of the most powerful men in Genvoia, Mabrey thought.

In celebration of the success of the first year of their joint venture, Rupert arranged a trip to the new casino, which was set on an incredible piece of property on the Mediterranean coast. He took Mabrey with him, as well as his oldest son, Crown Prince Pierre. The King was in high spirits and ready for some entertainment.

This was not the first time Pierre had accompanied his father on these sorts of trips. Ostensibly the King wanted to spend time with his son, but their interests seldom converged and they normally saw very little of each other on this trips. Pierre suspected that his mother was behind most of the invitations from his father, but he felt obligated to accept. And Rupert did seem to genuinely enjoy his company. At times.

After almost 5 straight hours at the blackjack table, Rupert was ready for a break. Pierre had long since tired of the activity. He had been to dinner and was on his way to a show that evening. Mabrey had sampled most of what the casino floor had to offer and had managed to have a cocktail with the casino manager. The manager was intent on making sure that one of his largest investors was happy. He told Mabrey that the entire facility and staff were at their disposal. Anything – _any_thing – he or the King wanted would be provided without hesitation.

The sense of entitlement and the almost fawning attitude of the manager were intoxicating. Mabrey loved the feeling of power it gave him. He made his way back to the King's side, the beginnings of an idea playing at the back of his mind.

"Arthur! Where have you been? I'm up by almost four thousand." The King was almost giddy – tired and hungry, but having too much fun to slow down.

"I'm afraid I don't have your luck, Your Majesty," Mabrey all but simpered. "I've arranged dinner for us with the manager. There are also some other…entertainments…that the casino has to offer for later on in the evening. If you are interested, that is."

"Dinner is probably a good idea," the King laughed good-naturedly. He indicated to the dealer that he was leaving the table. The pit boss materialized at his shoulder, noting the King's winnings and promising to have them added to his account. Rupert stood and stretched his long legs, while cuffing Mabrey's shoulder soundly. "Bring on the food!"

Rupert Renaldi was always quick with a hearty laugh and a funny story. The ability to entertain and put others at ease had served him well in diplomatic circles. Few who had close dealings with him doubted his shrewd business acumen or his duty to his country, but he softened his blows with laughter and good-natured camaraderie. This dinner was no exception and soon the casino manager was under the spell of the exuberant sovereign.

As dinner progressed and the pre-dinner cocktails gave way to wine which gave way to dessert liqueur and brandy, the King's stories became more ribald and his glances that followed the serving staff took on a slightly lecherous quality. Nothing gauche, but a noticeable lingering of the eyes, an errant touch here and there.

Mabrey was biding his time and when he thought the King was high enough to acquiesce, but not in danger of passing out too soon, he mentioned that the casino offered a full service, in-room massage for its high rollers. Rupert was all attention at that suggestion. The manager confirmed this and within a very short time, Rupert was ensconced in his guest suite, completely naked and being pummeled by a leggy brunette.

His groans of satisfaction were proof enough of his relaxed and suggestible state. Mabrey, who had accompanied the King to his room, stood up from his seat on a nearby couch.

"I'll be leaving now, Your Majesty," he said.

"Suit yourself, Arthur. But you should really give this a try," the King said, his voice muffled by the massage table.

"Oh, I plan to," Mabrey laughed. "There should be a young woman in my suite right now." He caught the eye of the masseuse and nodded deliberately. "Don't forget, this is a full service massage Your Majesty. I'm sure you'll want privacy."

The King's only answer was a throaty laugh. Mabrey left the suite and his last glance behind him as he shut the door revealed the brunette slowly undoing the buttons of her shirt.

Rupert woke hours later to find the woman still in his bed. This irritated him to no end, but he wasn't going to be rude about it. He was a married man who certainly loved his wife. But he was never one to confuse sex with love. A man in his position, he assumed, was expected to have the occasional dalliance with a beautiful woman. No one got hurt. It was never personal. That's why he hated to wake to find the woman still there. That verged on the personal. No one, not even his wife, ever spent the entire night with him. That was the whole point of having separate rooms.

He slipped out of bed, trying to avoid waking her so he wouldn't have to talk to her. He pulled his robe over his broad shoulders and knotted the belt before he opened the bedroom door. Robert was on duty outside.

"Morning, Robert."

"Sir." Robert nodded a greeting and came to attention.

"I'm going to take a shower. Would you make sure that my room is empty when I get out?"

"Yes, sir. I'll see to it that everything is in order." The guard's face was a picture of passivity, his thoughts hidden deep below a mask of efficiency.

As soon as he heard the water running in the shower, Robert stepped into the room and shook the woman awake. He informed her politely that she needed to vacate the premises. She was a pro and knew better than to make a scene about the obviously curt dismissal. She pretended to have overslept and had a sudden, urgent need to be somewhere else. Her cooperation and understanding earned an agreement from the guard when she asked to dress in private. He was not in the room when she retrieved the small camera from its hiding place in the folds of the bed's canopy. She'd been paid handsomely to make sure that the programmed camera had plenty to shoot and to deliver the goods to the right people. She was a consummate professional. In more ways than one.


	2. Chapter 2

Having missed his father at dinner the night before, Pierre Renaldi rose early and dressed. He then proceeded to his father's suite, intending to have breakfast with him.

Robert was on duty outside the door of the King's suite. He smiled fondly at the Prince. Pierre had not only his mother's fair coloring, but he had inherited her contemplative personality as well. He normally preferred solitary pursuits – study and reading, as well as being an accomplished photographer – as opposed to the father's more boisterous past times.

The younger prince, Philippe, was most often touted as favorite by the public. The darling of the media, Philippe seemed to have stumbled into the perfect mix of his parents – outgoing and personable like his father, but intuitive and diplomatic like his mother.

However, Robert had always appreciated the calm introspection of Pierre. He had an appreciation of the quiet watchfulness of the young man, which gave an impression of seeing far below the surface. Robert smiled a warm greeting at the prince.

"Father hasn't left yet, has he? I thought we could breakfast together."

"No, Your Highness. He's dressing now, I believe."

"Good," Pierre said and reached for the doorknob.

"Your Highness, he's…uh…"

Pierre caught Robert's uncomfortable glance towards the door. He knew all too well what it meant. He withdrew his hand and sighed heavily

"Again?" he asked, one word a sufficient communication between the two.

"I'm afraid so. She's dressing now and will be leaving…"

The door opened and a leggy brunette stepped out. Her somewhat diffident smile encompassed both of the men as she made her way back down the hall to the elevator. She threw a glance of appraisal back over her shoulder before entering the lift. The gaze lingered on the tall, handsome prince. Pierre studied her as well, noting nothing out of the ordinary; she was another pretty face and athletic figure – his father's preferred type.

Pierre felt Robert surveying him as he turned back towards the doorway. Pierre looked up and acknowledged the sympathy in the man's eyes.

"I live in fear that something will happen to my mother, Robert. Do you know why?"

"Why, Your Highness?"

"Because if my father is ever allowed to remarry, my step-mother will likely be younger than Philippe and a dreadful dinner table conversationalist."

Robert chuckled quietly. "Very likely, sir. Very likely."

Pierre flashed him a long-suffering smile and entered the suite. He made himself at home in the sitting room and perused the morning papers. Perhaps reading the news would distract him from the anger he felt at his at his father's behavior. As he pretended to ponder the day's newsworthy events, Pierre was surprised by his own feelings. He's known for many years about his father's unfaithfulness. King Rupert felt little need to hide his escapades, so long as he kept his dalliances outside the palace walls. Although this was nothing new, Pierre felt resentment rising in him as he contemplated his father's behavior. Regardless of whether or not the marriage was arranged, Pierre felt certain his mother had honored her vows. His father took the same vows. Why wasn't he bound by them as well?

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the water in the shower stop and the bathroom door opened. A few moments later, the king, clad only in a bath towel, entered the sitting room in search of a cup of coffee.

"Good morning, Pierre!"

"Father," he said levelly.

"How was your evening? Sorry I missed dinner with you." Rupert smiled over his shoulder at his son as he poured a steaming cup from the carafe on the table.

"That's alright. I ate early and took in a show. It was rather good actually – The Merry Wives of Windsor." He paused and glanced over the top of the newspaper at his father. "How is mother? Have you spoken to her yet this morning?" Pierre tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but wasn't sure he succeeded.

Rupert glanced sharply at his son. "Clarisse? No. No, I haven't called. I'm sure she's fine. We usually don't…bother each other when we're traveling apart." The King cleared his throat. "No news is good news, you know." Rupert gulped down a larger than intended amount of the hot liquid.

Pierre didn't reply, but turned the page of the paper, rattling it rather loudly. Rupert set his coffee cup on the bar. "I'll get dressed," he said. "How about some breakfast?"

"That's why I'm here," Pierre answered. He ordered room service while his father finished dressing.

Their conversation was trivial for most of the meal, but Rupert could sense the tension in the air as his son tried to hold back his disapproval. When breakfast was finished and he sat back to enjoy a final cup of coffee, Pierre couldn't help but ask, "How will you handle this –" his gesture encompassed the bedroom "when Philippe finds out? He's so fiercely protective of mother; there's no telling how he will react when he realizes what you do when you're away from the palace. When he finishes school and returns from America, he will not be a naïve child any longer."

Rupert regarded his son thoughtfully. 'That's why he's angry?' He was surprised by Pierre's reaction. Rupert had no idea Pierre found the situation so upsetting. He drained his coffee cup before answering. "This isn't really about Philippe, is it?"

Pierre met his gaze. "No. I suppose not."

"Fair enough. One day you will be in my position, and you need to know everything that's involved. I can't expect you to understand when you don't really know the whole story." Pierre did not reply, instead studied the pattern on the table linens. Rupert continued, "It may have escaped your notice that ours is not exactly a normal family." Pierre couldn't help but smile at his father's dry tone. "I was 19 when my marriage was arranged and I was officially betrothed to Clarisse. She was only 9 years old. Can you imagine how odd it feels to look at a beautiful, tow-headed child still playing with dolls and realize she will occupy your bed when she comes of age? It is terribly strange and a little frightening.

"We had a tea party together when our betrothal was announced as a way of meeting each other." Rupert smiled indulgently at the memory. "A pretend tea party with dolls and teddy bears, Pierre! And she wouldn't give me a second cup!" Pierre couldn't help but smile again. "Evidently I had besmirched the honor of Sir Paddington Bear or some such thing," Rupert said.

Pierre looked down into his coffee cup, but Rupert could see that he was smiling at the mental picture of his mother serving tea to her future husband and her stuffed animals.

"Anyway," he paused and buttered a bite of muffin. "We didn't see much of each other until her 16th birthday. And I didn't spend those years locked in a monastery somewhere, waiting on my betrothed to grow up. Do you remember your Aunt Marianna at all?" the King asked abruptly.

"Vaguely," Pierre answered. "I remember trips to a nursing home…"

Rupert nodded. "Polio. I was originally supposed to marry her, rather than Clarisse. She was only a couple of years younger than I and we had much more in common. But she fell ill before anything could be announced. My parents' were ready to pull out of the deal altogether until Clarisse's parents put her name forward as an alternative.

"Needless to say, Pierre, I had a hard time feeling attracted to a nine-year old doll fiend."

"She was hardly a child when you married, was she, father?" Pierre asked, his expression serious again.

"Wasn't she? Barely eighteen; she'd been promised to me for half her life and had never even been allowed to date another man. I never asked, but I don't think she'd even kissed a man until I came along. Her parents, having lost one daughter and one claim to the throne, were not about to let Clarisse do anything to put her position in jeopardy."

Pierre nodded his understanding. He'd never really known his maternal grandparents. His mother had not been close to them, it seemed, and they never forced a relationship with their royal grandchildren. Both were long since deceased.

"Is that why mother never really…" Pierre paused, searching for the right words.

"Never had much to do with her family?"

"Yes."

"I think so," Rupert said, staring out the window. "We've never really spoken of it, but I think Clarisse felt they had pushed her into this life so completely that she had no use for, or perhaps no access to, her past life. The only one she maintained any sort of a relationship with was Marianna. And truthfully, I always wondered how much that was fueled by her guilt at having usurped her sister's place." Rupert's voice trailed off and they ate in silence for a few moments.

Pierre looked at his father, who fumbled nervously with the remains of his food. Rupert had just painted a picture of the Queen as a lonely, unhappy ingénue. And yet still his father added to that unhappiness by bedding other women. It was not a pretty picture.

Pierre knew his parents cared for one another. He also knew that theirs was not a normal marriage. Yet that didn't change his feeling that his father's constant philandering was deeply wrong. The story of his mother's background - her innocence in his father's hands - didn't do anything to change that belief.

Before either of them could say anything further, a knock sounded at the door and Arthur Mabrey entered. "Good morning, Your Majesty. Your Highness."

"Arthur!" Rupert leapt up in greeting, obviously relieved at the interruption. Pierre nodded his response. He shared his mother's instinctual dislike of the man.

Soon the two older men were deep in conversation about their plans for the day. Pierre slipped out, his absence barely noticed. He thanked God once again that his parents had not continued the tradition of arranged marriages for him and his brother. And now he felt certain it had been his mother who had insisted that this particular tradition end with her.

____________________________________________________________________

The weekend was highly successful by Mabrey's standards. He was seen in close company with the reigning monarch of his country. He met several other members of the San Cayetano cartel, as well as other European royalty that he wouldn't have had such intimate access to without the obvious influence of his friend, the King.

The business side of things couldn't have gone better and the pleasure side was unparalleled. He and Rupert ate and drank to their hearts content, indulged in high stakes games open to only to a privileged few and never had to end an evening without willing female companionship.

The San Cayetano certainly knew how to indulge its investors.

Pierre occasionally joined the other two in the casino or for a meal; however the King carefully excluded him from the business side of the weekend. And Pierre had no taste for the older men's indulgence in more carnal pleasures. Pierre spent most of his time indulging one of his own passions – sailing up and down the pristine coastline.

Mabrey enjoyed himself immensely and was surprised to learn that Rupert kept his cartel business secret even from his son and successor. He filed this information away for future use.

The royal jet lifted off the tarmac at the charter airport. The Viscount used the time to work, pouring over his financial reports in his seat towards the rear of the craft. Once they were airborne, Pierre moved forward to sit across from his father.

Rupert looked up at him with a fond smile. Pierre smiled back and looked out the window for a few moments. Rupert waited for his son to speak.

Pierre finally cleared his throat a little self-consciously and looked at his father. "I have to admit, I'm not sure why I'm asking this, but I guess I'm just curious." He paused and Rupert continued to watch him, encouraging his son to continue. "You told me you didn't see Mother very often from the time your marriage was arranged, until she was 16 years old. What happened then?"

Rupert laughed. "Oh! I was afraid you wanted to know something important. This is a relief." Pierre smiled wanly in response.

"Very well, I'll tell you. The first time I was ever really alone with your mother was at her 16th birthday party. It wasn't the first of her birthday parties I'd attended, but, well, it was the first time she seemed more an adult than a child.

"I felt out of place around her. Her friends all knew about me, of course, but they were so much younger. We had nothing in common. This time, Clarisse seemed older than her friends. It was as if she was suddenly more mature than her age. We danced several times and the conversation was easy. I stayed for the entire party and actually enjoyed myself.

"And Clarisse…" Rupert paused. He chuckled self-consciously. "Well, uh…ahem…she, she was – she wore this dress, it was blue I think, and it fit her so perfectly and…"

Pierre laughed out loud. "I've seen her father. I think the term you are searching for is 'she was hot'."

Rupert joined the laughter. "Yes, she was most certainly 'hot'. And she knew it. Finally at the end of the evening – we'd been sitting and just talking – she took my hand and led me down into the garden. There was a huge oak tree at the center and she led me to the tree." Rupert grinned at his son. "Your mother had decided she was no longer a child, but a woman. And she wanted more than the normal, uh, brotherly peck on the cheek that I'd given her until then." Rupert's voice trailed off and he looked at the glass in his hand as he swirled the drink inside.

Pierre raised both eyebrows in surprise. "You slept with her on her 16th birthday?" he asked, incredulous.

"NO!" Rupert almost yelled, then laughed. "No, indeed. She would never have let me, even if I'd tried. But, she was interested and trying out a few lip locks."

"Ok, ok! I don't need to know about that!" Pierre protested.

"Well, what did you want to know about?"

"Was that when you fell in love?"

Rupert paused for a moment. "No. That wasn't it. But we did become closer. The idea of marrying a beautiful child faded and I realized that I would be marrying a beautiful woman. Truthfully, it was a huge relief. I left that night feeling happier about the future than I had in a long time."

Pierre seemed satisfied with the answer and turned to stare out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Rupert watched his son for a few moments, wondering what was going on in his son's mind. Why the sudden interest in his parent's history? Was it just normal curiosity about his family history? Or something more?

Rupert's memory wandered back to the evening he'd just described to Pierre. He remembered the way Clarisse felt in his arms - her firm, athletic body swaying against his in time to the music. He'd definitely felt desire for her that day. The lust burned brightly in the back of his mind. And the front of his mind had been hugely relieved to meet a woman on this occasion. Not a child. Logically, of course, he knew she would mature and change before their marriage, but he couldn't deny the dread that lifted from his heart that day. He knew marriage to Clarisse would be good, maybe even great.

He remembered following her into the garden. The way her hair danced behind her as she ran lightly down the path. The sway of her skirt around her hips. The obvious challenge in her eyes as she tossed a glance back over her shoulder at him. When they reached the old oak, she spun around, surprising him with the quickness of her movement. She placed her hands on his chest, palms flat and fingers splayed apart. He was almost falling towards her and she caught him. She didn't push him away, but guided him towards her lips – her eyes wide open. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he kissed her. She didn't react at first. He felt like he was kissing a statue and he knew if he opened his eyes, she would be staring at him.

He didn't stop. She didn't ask him to stop. She let him explore her lips with his own, tasting her. Finally he pulled her closer, his arms almost yanking her off the ground and driving her back into the trunk of the tree. She moved then, arms coming up to circle his neck. Her lips moved too, and she returned the kiss. She copied his movements, followed his lead. Rupert caught himself sliding towards a line he didn't intend to cross. A voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to stop. He finally obeyed and pulled away from her.

Looking at her was almost his undoing. He was struck by the vision of the woman-child before him. She was all woman – tantalizing curves in all the right places. But she was also a child. Her eyes held a hint of fear behind the child-like curiosity that was darkened by the awakenings of desire. He knew now that she'd been testing him, trying him, answering the same questions for herself that he'd been asking in his own mind. And yes, they'd answered some serious questions pressed against that oak tree in the late evening of Clarisse's 16th birthday. Serious questions indeed.

He frowned now, realizing he'd left at least one question unanswered. Pierre had asked if that was when they fell in love. What his son really wanted to know was did his parents fall in love. When?

There was no when.

Rupert lusted after his wife. He cared deeply for her. He didn't wish her anything but happiness and contentment. He knew she felt the same for him. But they weren't in love and never had been. It just hadn't clicked for them. Their relationship worked, but it wasn't a love match. Sometimes it was close, so close as to be almost indistinguishable. And sometimes it was so very far from love. The feeling wasn't even deep enough to engender hatred between the two of them. Just warmth and closeness or distance and complacency.

And right now, they were on the distance and complacency end of the scale. And he knew that was his fault. He'd been spending time with fancy young women more often than ever. And the majority of his free time was spent planning investments and projects with Mabrey and the San Cayetano consortium.

Maybe that was what was behind this. He knew full well that Clarisse would never have put Pierre up to talking with him. That was not her style at all. But perhaps his perceptive son realized his mother was unhappy and was looking for a reason why.

Rupert sighed. He owed Clarisse more than that. Regardless of what sort of marriage they had, he'd never been unhappy. Not really. And he owed her at least that. He would have to do what he could to make her feel better upon his return.

The first thing he thought of were the stables. One of the few activities that Clarisse and Rupert actually collaborated on was their horse farm. They had some of the finest breeding stock in all of Europe. Both of them loved horses and spent happy hours riding and training. It had been a while since he'd done any work with the horses. Maybe they could go to a horse show? Or races? A new stallion might be just the thing to perk up her outlook on life. Just the thing.

It turned out that Rupert was exactly right. A new stallion was exactly what changed her outlook on life.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N _Greetings, everyone! I never, ever seem to be able to remember to make this disclaimer at the first of a story, but you know full well that I own know of this stuff. I'm making no money from it and get nothing out of it other than your wonderful reviews. Reviews are the reason I write, so please keep them coming! This chapter is a bit short. More to come soon. _

"Lord Palimore's committee has contacted us twice now, asking for this report, Rupert. I'm afraid they're going to storm the palace gates if they don't get it soon. Parliament needs it to finish this bill before the summer recess." Clarisse Renaldi's tone was not quite scolding, but it was close. "Do you have any plans to complete it? Anytime soon?"

Rupert glanced perfunctorily at the file folder his wife had placed on his desk. "All in good time, Clarisse. They will have it in plenty of time to finish their work. Why are you suddenly so concerned about this?"

"Why? Because when they can't get access to you, whom do you suppose they turn to? And I'm tired of trying to come up with excuses for you." Her arms were crossed in front of her chest and she stood several feet back from his desk, almost as if she expected him to cross it and attack her.

"I don't remember asking you to make excuses for me or anyone else. Don't bother with this, just refer them back to me." Rupert finally looked up from the paperwork on his desk. "I will take care of it," he said deliberately.

He heard the sharp breath she took, ready to spit out an angry reply. She caught herself just in time and buried the emotion behind her mask of impassivity. Their gazes locked momentarily; hers was the first to pull away. She simply nodded and said "I would very much appreciate it if you would do that." She cleared her throat and looked at the tea service standing in the corner of the office. "Would you care for a cup, Rupert?"

"Hmm? Oh, no thank you, but please help yourself, my dear." He spoke distractedly and buried his head again in the paperwork. She poured a cup of tea and sat down in one of the chairs across from his desk.

Fragments of strained small talk passed between them as he continued to study the charts and graphs of the financial reports on his desk. Finally she said, "You seem to be inordinately busy these last few months, Rupert. Yet there also seems to be less government business being completed. Parliament must be doubling their workload these days." She kept her gaze lowered into her teacup.

Rupert looked up at her and stared for a few moments as she sipped her tea. He was fairly sure of what she was trying to say and frankly he didn't like it. But she didn't elaborate and he couldn't be sure if she was taking a swipe at him or not. He shook his head and went back to his paperwork, but continued to glance at her as he turned the pages.

This is what frustrated him most about his wife. One could never really know what she was thinking. When she disagreed with him, she almost never did it directly. She never lost her poise or composure. How he wished she would just argue with him. Really fight with him, not these controlled conflicts that took place completely below the surface. He knew there was fire in her. He'd been the rather pleased beneficiary of that fire a few times when she'd had a little more to drink than usual.

Rupert couldn't help but smile just a bit at that thought. He had a habit of pushing at her defenses whenever he could get her to drink more than just a couple of glasses of champagne – which wasn't very often and not nearly as often as he would have liked. Those were the times he could goad her into an argument, into saying what she really felt, or even into heated sex. She would murder him in his sleep if she knew that, but he enjoyed her best when she was angry. She was charming and utterly engaging otherwise. There were few people who made him feel as comfortable or contented as she. But it was when she lowered the walls she'd built around her emotions that he liked her best. She was rougher then. She liked --.

His train of thought was interrupted when she stood up to leave.

"Have a good day, Rupert. I'll see you at dinner?"

"Hmm? Oh!" Her voice had startled him out of his reverie. "Not this evening, I'm afraid. There is a board meeting for the polo league that I'll be attending at the club this evening. I can look in on you when I return."

She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll probably be asleep long before you get back."

"Alright, darling. Call me if you need me."

She didn't answer, but smiled and slipped through the door, ever a picture of elegance. Rupert sighed and thought of another face, another body. One that didn't keep such a tight reign on its thoughts and feelings. He added the name to his mental list of calls to make during the day.

________________________________________________________________________

In the weeks and months that followed, Clarisse found herself covering for her husband with Parliamentarians more often than ever. Rupert was in and out of the country repeatedly, almost always making stops at the San Cayetano casinos whenever he traveled.

Clarisse buried her frustration for the most part and threw herself into the work at hand. As the weeks stretched into months, she withdrew more completely from those around her. The staff, who now felt the sharp side of her tongue more often than not, began to refer to her as the Ice Queen behind her back.

Pierre watched the interaction, or lack thereof, between his parents with growing dissatisfaction. He envied his younger brother, who was living in America attending college. Being halfway around the world was highly preferable to the frosty atmosphere in the Genovian palace. Ever since he had completed his studies at Oxford, Pierre had been dissatisfied. He yearned for a job, a vocation, something productive to do. Instead, he sat around the palace helping out here and there as his father allowed. His only duty was to wait for his father to die so he could take his place. It was a ghoulish responsibility, he thought. King Rupert was a hale and hearty man and Pierre would likely be middle aged before he was able to be really useful.

As a result of his own dissatisfaction and the tension between his parents, Pierre stayed away as much as possible. The palace was not a pleasant place to be. The situation came to a head one summer evening as the royal family sat down to a rare private dinner with all three members in residence being present.

Rupert was late.

Pierre and Clarisse were kept waiting until the King arrived. As he strode purposefully into the room and seated himself at the head of the table, he nodded in acknowledgment of his wife and heir. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Arthur was on the phone and we had to finish our business."

"Of course," Clarisse responded coldly. Rupert raised a brow at her tone, but didn't respond.

Pierre tried to steer the conversation to innocuous small talk, feeling a responsibility for trying to keep a lid on he palpable tension in the room. The serving staff seemed to sense that the dinner was not going well. The waiters made quick work of the various courses and vacated the dining room as swiftly as possible. The Prince made a few half-hearted inquiries as to the state of his parents' horse farm, and his mother's flower garden. Then he mentioned the yachting trip he and his father had planned for later that month.

At that point, Rupert cleared his throat self-consciously. "Oh, well, about that, Pierre…" He felt, rather than saw, the sharp glance Clarisse threw his direction. "I've had something come up," he continued. "There is a business meeting I must attend that weekend. I'm afraid I'll have to beg off."

"A business meeting," Clarisse repeated flatly.

"Yes. I do have matters other than yachting that vie for my attention, Clarisse." Rupert's voice was cold and bordered on condescending.

"Such as?" she asked, her tone matching his.

"I don't see the need to explain myself. When I say I have important business, that is exactly what I mean. So now do you intend to approve my schedule? I'll have my secretary forward it to you immediately." The King glared at the Queen.

Clarisse threw her napkin into her plate. Her eyes were flashing as she addressed her husband. "That trip is important, Rupert! Not only to your son, but you're scheduled to make appearances at several port festivals along the way. Your people are expecting you. You've dodged your responsibility to them too often in the past few months. I think you owe them more than that and you certainly owe Pierre more of an explanation than this nonsense about having to attend some sort of 'business meeting'." She was furious by the time she finished speaking. Pierre looked down at his plate, trying to avoid getting caught in the middle of his parents' argument.

The door from the kitchen opened slightly and the waiter with the desert tray surveyed the room. At the sight of the Prince with his head down, the King gripping the sides of the long table so tightly that his knuckles were white and the angry flush working it's way up the Queen's neck, the waiter silently stepped back into the kitchen. Dessert could wait.

Rupert pushed back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I owe no one, Clarisse. How dare you question me! I am going about my business the best way I see fit. You of all people should recognize that involves sacrifice. I can't always do what I would like to do."

"That's just it, Rupert! You're going about _your_ business. Not Genovia's business."

Pierre glanced back and forth between his parents, his expression decidedly uncomfortable. Ever the peacemaker, he ventured, "It's all right, Mother. I can handle the trip on my own. I'm sure –"

Clarisse silenced him with a look, then turned her attention back to Rupert, who was busying himself with knife and fork. "What is it that has so claimed your attention, Rupert? What have you found that could possibly be more important than your duty to your country?"

He didn't look up from his plate. "You are mistaken, Clarisse. There is nothing," he said coldly.

She eyed him malevolently for several moments. He was not forthcoming with any additional information. Pierre pushed the food around on his plate, desperately wishing he was somewhere else.

"You are a liar, Rupert," Clarisse said quietly. Her husband jerked his head up, ready to lash out at her, but she spoke before he could. "What are you and Viscount Mabrey involved in? The man is here underfoot almost every day. What is going on? Why have you promoted him so forcefully in parliament? He's competent, I'll grant you that, but he's done nothing – as far as I can see – to warrant such strong support from the crown. He is connected to all of this somehow, isn't he?"

The clatter of cutlery on china assaulted their ears as Rupert flung his silverware onto the plate. "Enough!" he roared, jumping to his feet. He leaned over, fists on the table. "I will not sit here and listen to your berate me for dereliction of duty, Clarisse. I don't hear anyone else complaining! I take my responsibilities very seriously and no one – NO one – in Genovia is suffering because of a lack of attention from me."

His wrathful gaze raked up and down her body. She was almost trembling and breathing heavily in an attempt to control her anger. Passion burned in her eyes as he met her furious stare. Rupert felt the stirrings deep inside his body as he began to respond to the sight of his wife so ablaze with emotion. The fact that she could arouse him so when all he wanted to do was strangle her made him even angrier.

"Perhaps not, Rupert. But whom have you helped lately? Other than Mabrey and yourself? NO one that I'm aware of," she said, throwing his tone back at him.

"This is ridiculous," he spat out and turned on his heel, exiting the room.

Clarisse stared after him, working to bring her breathing back under control. Her cheeks were hot with partially repressed fury. Finally she turned her gaze back toward her son. He felt her eyes on him and looked up at her. "I'm sorry, Pierre," she said.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Mother." Pierre took a deep breath, then pushed his plate away. "I think you are right. Father has his secrets and they are consuming more of him and his time than is prudent." He smiled ruefully at her. "Forgive me, but I don't feel very hungry anymore."

She nodded. "Me neither. I think I'll go for a walk. Care to join me?"

"No thanks. I have a meeting with Bishop Michael this evening, so I think I will make my way to the cathedral."

"Say a prayer for us while you are there," she said with a sad smile. "We could use it."


	4. Chapter 4

The week following the argument between King and Queen passed in tense silence, for the most part, in the royal chambers. Both threw themselves into their work and contrived to seldom be alone together. Pierre wasn't often seen around the palace. Whenever his mother inquired as to his whereabouts, the security staff, more often than not, reported he was at the Cathedral or the Archbishop's residence. Clarisse was worried about her son. Rupert didn't seem to notice anything was any different.

The King had made an effort to spend more time on governmental business and as the days passed, the tension began to ease between him and his wife. Much as he was loath to admit it, Rupert was worried by Clarisse's recent tirade. If his activities had attracted her attention enough for her to be that upset by them, then she might well begin to investigate what he was doing. He couldn't afford to let that happen. By the end of the second week, Rupert felt he had earned a break and determined to spend a day with his friend, the Viscount Mabrey.

They had business to confer on, so Rupert arranged for them to spend the day in recreational pursuits on the grounds, away from the prying eyes and ears of the palace staff. The men spent the better part of the day tromping through the forrest behind the King's best hounds, hunting rifles at the ready. The isolation made discussion possible on the upcoming plans for their casino investments.

Now, back at the palace for the evening, the men were relaxing on a covered terrace outside the king's study. Rupert took a deep drag on his cigar. His companion seemed intent on studying the swirling brandy in his glass. The sun was just setting and the air was heavy and still. Clouds in the distance threatened rain, but if it rained, it would storm.

Rupert exhaled and regarded the toes of his boots for a long moment before lifting his head and squinting into the sunset. "My wife troubles me, Arthur."

"Oh? Why?" Mabrey was surprised by the revelation.

"She could put an end to our business ventures."

Mabrey grunted noncommittally, holding his tongue until he knew more. After a few moments the King continued. "I thought we had a good relationship. I've always done what I thought was best for Genovia. For my family. She never seemed to mind. She trusted me."

"What is the problem, Your Majesty?" Mabrey asked.

Not really answering the question, the King continued his musings. "She's so hard to talk to. You never know what she's feeling until it's too late to do a damn thing about it." Rupert sighed. "I've always done what I thought was right. Now, I don't know. When she doesn't trust my judgment, it makes me question myself."

Mabrey kept his silence, continued to swirl his brandy slowly around the glass. Arthur Mabrey had given the King a report on their profits earlier in the day. The accounting was positively inspirational. They had made more money than either had imagined possible. What impact could the Queen possibly have on all of this?

Rupert knew he should have been happy about how things were going – he should have been ecstatic. But with each addition to their bottom line, he felt a growing sense of loss. Loss of control over his own fate. His affairs were becoming too closely tied to the cartel. And the cartel was becoming despotic with power. Their activities had always existed in the grey zone beyond the law, but now they actively sought out more blatantly illegal business.

Rupert was getting scared.

He'd not said anything before, but in the back of his mind he'd toyed with the idea of letting it go. It wasn't fun anymore. It took all of his time and energy to keep his involvement secret. His knew his reign was suffering for it. Clarisse had covered for him so far, but that wouldn't last forever. She was becoming more suspicious. He couldn't let her find out. If she knew, or even suspected his involvement, she would be devastated. Rupert knew his wife well enough to be certain that if she thought he was doing something illegal she would find a way to put a stop to it.

The brandy was at least partially responsible for the fact the King voiced these fears aloud. The more he talked, the more quietly enraged Arthur Mabrey became.

From where they sat, the men could see the Queen wandering the gardens. She appeared very relaxed, occasionally stooping to attend to a plant or a flower here and there. The soft light favored her particularly and she was oblivious to the fact that the two men were watching her every move. Had she looked up, the intensity she would have seen in both men would have proved unnerving.

Mabrey didn't bother to hide the loathing in his gaze.

"Her Majesty shouldn't complain about the work, if I may say so, your Majesty. Working keeps her busy and that in turn keeps her from causing problems and embarrassment to the crown. When she has too little to do, she spends her time dallying with the servants, or some such thing. It is unseemly."

"She's doing too much. I hate for her to be overworked and tired. I know it's making her unhappy," Rupert said musingly, not really paying attention to Mabrey. "And when she's unhappy…she gets uncooperative. I find that I miss…" He let the thought die. His eyes rested on the gazebo where Clarisse had settled to watch the sunset.

A short silence drug out between the two of them as Mabrey thought back to an incident he witnessed a few months previously.

"_Rupert. Please!"_

_The sibilant whisper penetrated through the small opening of the office door. Mabrey glanced furtively around the office. The staff had already left for the day. He moved closer and pressed an eye to the opening. _

_He could see the royal couple, bodies pressed against the edge of the King's massive desk. His Majesty's face was buried in the crook of the Queen's neck. One hand clutched at the fabric of her skirt pulling it up to reveal a creamy expanse of her thigh.  
_

_Mabrey's breath sharpened and he didn't realize he'd licked his lips. _

_The Queen spoke again, pressing her hands to her husband's chest. "Stop, Rupert, please!"_

"_Why?"_

"_Because," she gasped for breath and freed herself with a forceful shove, "that man is waiting right outside for you." Her eyes flashed at her husband, she was just short of angry. "I will not do this – not here and now."_

_Rupert was breathing heavily, his eyes burning with mischief and desire. "Well when and where WILL you do this?"_

_She laughed somewhat self-consciously. "When you finish whatever business you have with the Viscount and come to my suite." He leaned in and planted another kiss on her neck, finishing with a lusty growl. "But not a minute before," she gasped._

_He sighed and pulled back from her. "Oh, all right. At least you've given me incentive to finish up early. I'll see you…soon." He grinned leeringly. She laughed lightly at him and stood straight once again, her clothing falling back into place to be smoothed out by her perfectly manicured hands. _

"_Very well then, my dear," she said quietly and turned towards the door. Mabrey jumped back, quickly busying himself with the papers in his hand when she swept past him, the scent of her perfume lingering in her wake. He bowed towards her somewhat stiffly but she barely acknowledged it, not breaking stride as she left the office suite. Mabrey glared after the retreating figure, angrily aware of the tightening he felt in his groin. _

"_Arthur!" the king called from the open door. "Come on in. Let's get this over with!"_

"She has become a problem, Your Majesty," he ventured carefully. The King cocked an eyebrow at him, indicating he should continue. "Forgive me if I am too forward, but you shouldn't have to worry about what your wife thinks in this matter. She is subject to the will of the King as are all your subjects. Women sometimes don't appreciate the type of acumen needed for international finance such as this. We are dealing with sharp businessmen, not altruistic philanthropists. She needn't be burdened with the details. All that should concern the Queen is fulfilling the duties you've placed before her. You would think she would be more concerned with supporting you, rather than questioning you. It's not as if her position is secure. You don't need her."

The King glanced sharply at Mabrey, indicating he wished an explanation. Mabrey continued, "She has fulfilled her purpose. The monarchy is insured through your progeny. You have two male heirs, either of which could take your place and secure the Renaldi rule. I pray that I am not overstepping my bounds, but it is obvious that you aren't lacking for female companionship. You no longer require a queen and she is doing nothing but stand in your way."

"What are you suggesting, Arthur? We can't divorce. That's impossible. What do you expect me to do – banish her to some distant island or something?"

Mabrey shook his head and chuckled into his glass. "There isn't an island distant enough for that purpose, Your Majesty. No, I'm suggesting that your marriage end…tragically."

"Tragically? You think – you think I should have her killed? Are you insane?" Rupert's voice rose incredulously.

"Not at all Your Majesty. Not at all. But you can't ever tell – things happen and sometimes people die unexpectedly. I'm just asking how you would feel if that were to happen."

"I – I wouldn't like it, Mabrey. I don't want Clarisse hurt! Not ever, do you understand?" He eyed his companion coldly.

"Absolutely, Your Majesty. It was just an idea. After all, Her Majesty has ample security when she leaves the palace, but the grounds here are extensive. Anything could happen. She could fall from her horse, and lie unconscious somewhere unseen for hours. And if someone were intent on…hurting her, they could hide easily on the grounds, then attack her unseen and leave her for dead." Mabrey ran the back of his hand across his mouth, then pointed up towards the royal family's private wing. "Even in her own rooms she wouldn't be particularly safe. Not from someone who managed to secret themselves inside. Her screams would be muffled by those heavy doors…" Mabrey's voice trailed off, but his gaze followed the body of the Queen as she left the gazebo and moved away from them on her way back inside.

Rupert sat in stunned silence, watching his friend. The Viscount followed Clarisse's every move as she made her way along the paths. There was a glint in Mabrey's eye that Rupert recognized. It was lust. But lust tinged with something else. Something malevolent.

The worry had been flitting around the edges of the King's senses now coalesced into something cold and heavy. Fear settled into the pit of his stomach.

_____________________________________________________________________

The Viscount left the palace rather quickly after their conversation. The King returned to his office to think.

Rupert felt…well…prickly, for lack of a better word. He was worried, but what, really, was he worried about? This casino business was a good idea – it was practically foolproof. The only weakness, if it could even be called that, was Clarisse. She wouldn't be a factor as long as he kept her in the dark. And Arthur would never do anything to hurt her. Would he?

They'd been friends for so long. They understood each other. Arthur Mabrey had the burning need for power that sometimes consumed those on the edges of it. Rupert had fed his friend just enough power to keep control of the relationship. He knew how to work Mabrey, like the dealer and the addict; he gave Mabrey just enough to keep him in line.

But there was now an unknown in the mix.

He'd never realized Mabrey's feelings for Clarisse. And to be honest, it unnerved him. One of the reasons Clarisse was as imminently perfect in her role as his wife was her classic, elegant beauty. The King was accustomed to other men lusting after his Queen. She was used to it as well but was skilled in the art of graceful disengagement. She was a master of talking her way out of a socially awkward situation while allowing her rejected admirer to save face. She remained ever elegant and aloof, a picture of perfection that could be adored but never accessed.

Something about the Viscount made her react differently towards him, however. The aloofness became something bordering on disdain when he was near her. Even though she never spoke of it, Rupert was well aware that Clarisse did not like his friend. And likewise, he had known that Mabrey found his wife attractive.

But now he understood that Arthur Mabrey lusted after Clarisse in a darker, almost malicious way. Rupert found it rather disconcerting. What were the chances of Mabrey actually trying something? He wouldn't attack Clarisse, Rupert was sure of that, but he certainly might try to worm his way into a position of access to her. And then what if Mabrey decided to try a little blackmail? He certainly could try, but it would mean Mabrey's ruin as much as it would the King's. Surely that was enough to keep the man in line?

Rupert sighed. It was late and he was tired of the worries. He should have been exhilarated at the prospect of the wealth he'd just added to his considerable financial stores. Few things in life made him happier than making money – whether it was his personal wealth or the wealth of his country. It was undeniable that Genovia had prospered under Rupert's hand.

He sucked in a breath and pushed the worries out of his mind. It was late. He needed to get out of his office. After straightening the desk, he left the office and made his way to the wing housing the royal family's private quarters. He had no real plans for the evening. Given the hour, he would just indulge in another large brandy, a bit of reading and then go to bed.

But then he came upon the door to Clarisse's suite. He paused and the footmen made a move as if to announce him to the room's occupant.

"No need, gentlemen," Rupert said as he took the knob in his hand. "She's expecting me," he lied. He slipped quietly into the sitting room beyond the door. It was deserted. Evidently she had already retired to her bedroom. He crossed quietly to the bedroom door and slowly opened it. To his surprise, the room was completely dark. He'd expected to find Clarisse perhaps reading in bed, but instead the moonlight spilled through the open drapes and outlined a sleeping form in the middle of a vast bed. The size of the bed and numerous pillows and linens made his wife appear smaller than usual as she slept, curled in a ball in the middle of the bed.

Rupert watched her silently for a moment, musing to himself that this is what they meant in literature when they wrote about 'a sleeping angel'. The Queen really was a beautiful woman. 'If this were a romance novel,' the King grinned at his inner monologue, 'I would just stand here and admire her angelic beauty and leave her to her dreams.' He stepped into the room and made his way silently to her bed. 'Thank God this isn't one of those stories,' he thought and chuckled softly.

Clarisse stirred slightly at the sound and then settled with a light sigh. Rupert smiled indulgently at her as he stood at her bedside and removed his clothing. "It's good to be King," he whispered to himself. Then he lowered his body onto her bed, shifting his weight slowly so as not to waken her right away. She moaned softly, but did not stir further. Once he was fully inclined next to his wife, he reached for her supple body, running his hands over her silk gown. She stirred then, consciousness beginning to fight with sleep. Rupert's hands moved to her breasts, and Clarisse jerked awake, pulling away from him with a small cry.

Rupert laughed into her soft shoulder, feeling her quick, frightened breathing.

"Rupert!" she exclaimed, now fully awake. "You scared the life out of me!"

"I know. I'm sorry," he said.

"No you're not! I can feel you laughing," she admonished him, sounding more good-natured than she felt.

Rupert wrapped an arm around her and turned her so that she was lying on her back. "I just couldn't resist," he said as he slid his body over atop hers.

"Hmm," she murmured. Clarisse was tired and the attentions of her husband were not especially welcome. However, he could not or would not take the hint. Rupert didn't ask this of her often and she felt slightly guilty at the thought of refusing him. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to find out what would happen if she refused him. She resigned herself to participation and soon her body began to respond to his attentions. They might not be frequent lovers, but she'd never had any complaints about the quality of their encounters.

When Rupert left her suite an hour later, Clarisse lay back on her pillows, wondering if sleep had fled for the evening. She got up and took a hot shower, reveling in the warm pinpricks of water coursing over her skin. On her way back to her bed, she picked up a file off the bedside table. She'd been reading over a report on new banking laws prior to tomorrow's parliamentary finance committee meeting. It had succeeded in putting her firmly to sleep earlier in the evening. Maybe it would work again. And if not, maybe she would get some work done.

Within 15 minutes the file slid from her grasp and her breathing had slowed. Clarisse was fast asleep.

________________________________________________________________________

Rupert also slept well that night. The solution to his worries for Clarisse had come to him as he left his wife's rooms and walked towards his own bed chambers. He knew what he would do.

When he reached his office the next morning he called for Robert, the Head of Security. Rupert told him he wanted to make a change in security. Robert listened intently as the king told him he'd been privy to a possible threat to the Queen.

"I want Clarisse to have a full-time body guard, Robert."

Robert nodded slowly, wondering if he should speak freely. Rupert grinned at him. "I know what you're thinking. She's not going to be happy about this."

"She has been rather…resistant to security issues in the past, sir."

"I know. But times have changed. She is a public figure just as much as I am. That in and of itself puts her at risk. The world is a different place than it was when we started out."

"I agree Your Majesty. Actually, I was planning to make an appointment to discuss some security changes with you. I have a suggestion that might work for all of us." He paused and grinned sheepishly. "Well, it might work for you and I, anyway."

Rupert laughed and the two men settled down to talk.

A/N _Thanks again for the reviews! Guess who is one of the main characters in this story! Go ahead, guess! Joseph, you say? Yes! I promise, promise, promise that he shows up soon. Real soon. Just bear with me a bit first, ok?_

_cw_


	5. Chapter 5

Joseph Romero was beginning to settle in as he started third week on the job. He hadn't yet sent for his personal belongings, preferring to keep them in storage until he was sure he was staying. Being good at his chosen career gave Joe the freedom to audition his employer. If they didn't measure up to his standards, any of his previous employers would be more than happy to have him back.

He'd been recruited from Interpol by the Genovian palace's Head of Security. Robert told Joseph he was planning to retire within the next couple of years and needed someone whose skills he could trust to groom as his successor. Robert knew Joseph from work they'd done together providing security for international political summits over the years. He had also attended presentations Joseph made at various security and intelligence conferences as a part of his job with Interpol. Robert was always impressed with Romero's expertise and professionalism. Joe was an excellent security officer, but it was clear that languishing in middle management at the huge law enforcement agency was not his cup of tea.

So, after no little thought, Joseph accepted the offer of employment with the Genovian Royal Family. The King welcomed him warmly and explained his interest in modernizing palace security and, most especially, personal protection for the royal family. Joe was informed that he would take over the Queen's security team. He would spend a few weeks in a secondary role, learning how the team operated and evaluating its performance before taking full command. Robert would still coordinate security for the King.

His team was generally efficient and dedicated, but there was a lack of attention to detail that bothered Joseph. There had never really been any problems regarding the Queen's safety and therefore, none were expected. The Queen's supposed dislike of all things related to security was used as an excuse for not doing as thorough a job as was required.

On this particular day, her Majesty was giving a speech at the commencement ceremony of a small liberal arts university in the north of the country. For most of the time he'd been on the job, the Queen had been working in the palace or shuttling back and forth to meetings with various political committees. He'd been surprised at how busy she was. Initially Joseph expected her to spend her time giving parties and getting fitted for ball gowns. He'd secretly dreaded being in charge of her security and hoped he could survive the boredom until Robert retired and he could promote himself to the King's security detail.

Now, after a few short weeks of service, he knew her to be a highly intelligent and capable woman. She took care of a significant portion of the Crown's business and her presence was in demand in numerous meetings and negotiations, both domestic and international. He was also beginning to learn that she was more than a little stubborn and her cool, elegant manner, coupled with a hefty dose of low-key sex appeal had a way of mesmerizing those she dealt with – guards most definitely included - into letting her have her way.

This, he knew, was going to be a problem.

Clarisse Renaldi was not going to take kindly to having her freedom curtailed. He was still debating, as he had been for the last couple of weeks, the best way to gain her cooperation in the matter. Experience had taught him that unless the subject was in agreement with the need for security measures, those measures would be rendered almost useless.

As he prepared for the trip north, Joseph was surprised to learn that there was normally only one guard actually in the car with the Queen, and that guard acted as both security and chauffeur. On this particular trip Joseph decided to take a turn driving the Queen's limo. The others would ride in two separate vehicles, one ahead and one behind the limo. Normally he would have simply changed the plans to something more secure, such as a driver and at least one guard in the front and perhaps another guard in the back with the Queen herself. But he didn't make the change. He simply decided to drive her himself.

If he'd thought about it, he couldn't have given a reason why.

He'd been waiting in the limo when a footman opened the door and the Queen stepped into the car. She was giving last minute instructions to Charlotte, her new aide and didn't acknowledge his presence. When she finished and the door closed, Joseph radioed the other cars to tell them they were ready.

They pulled away from the palace and down the long drive towards the palace gates. The Queen was already reading through a stack of papers, Joseph noted as he glanced back at her. She hadn't bothered to raise the privacy screen, but she certainly hadn't acknowledged his presence either. He concentrated on the driving, retreating into his own private world, something he'd learned to do well.

Much later a voice sounded from the backseat. "How much longer until we get to the campus, Joseph?"

The sound of his name nudged him out of his own thoughts. "About an hour, Your Majesty."

"Don't look so surprised," she said, smiling at his reflection in the rear view mirror. "Of course I remember your name."

He grinned back at her. "No offense, ma'am, but you've only been introduced to me once and this is the first time I've done anything more than just work the peripheral security for you. I'd say you have a good memory."

"If you say so," she paused ever so slightly before finishing, "Joseph." He chuckled. "Why haven't you been more involved in my security until now?"

"Ma'am? I've only just started and Robert suggested –"

"I bet he did," was her quick retort. "Rupert and Robert have been grousing about security for months now. I had expected them to get some new toy to play with – maybe new cameras or something. I must say I didn't expect you."

Joseph kept his eyes on the road. "Am I the new toy, ma'am?" he asked noncommittally.

She seemed to read his thoughts and laughed at him, almost mockingly. "I didn't mean it like that, Joseph. It's just obvious that you are not the usual run of the mill new security guard."

"No?"

"No. For one thing, you're old."

He laughed out loud at that and was rewarded with a smile from his passenger. "I prefer the term experienced," he said.

"Well, normally, so do I," she admitted. "But I've read your resume and watched you for the last couple of weeks. You obviously know your business and I can tell you don't like how things are being run here."

"I've been in this business in one form or another for many years, Your Majesty. And you're right – I do think that security is far too lax for you and His Majesty."

"I won't be made a prisoner, Joseph – an untouchable icon locked away from my people," her voice held a touch of warning and her gaze hardened slightly as it met his in the rearview mirror.

"That is understandable, Madam, but just the same, security could be increased without curtailing your public contacts." He realized that her eyes changed slightly when she was serious about the point she was making. The blue seemed to deepen somehow. It was a rather remarkable trait, he thought.

"Perhaps. And all I would have to give up is yet another measure of my personal privacy." She turned her face to the window, not really expecting an answer. He did not give her one.

Some time later, she addressed the rearview mirror yet again. "Tell me about yourself, Joseph. Wife? Family?" Before he could answer, she continued, "I notice you're not wearing a wedding ring. Surely you aren't one of those pathetic bachelors who work hard, play harder and spend the holidays with their sisters – spoiling the children and being envied by the husbands?"

"How did you guess?"

"It figures," her voice was exasperated but he could see that she was smiling.

"In my line of work it was always easier to be on my own, rather than having someone at home, worried about if or when I would return. But I can't say that I wouldn't consider marriage, if the right woman came along."

"Ah. So you are waiting for Ms. Perfect to fall out of heaven and land in your arms," she said as she flipped through still more paperwork in her lap.

"I'd much rather she drive up in an Italian sports car."

Clarisse laughed. "Be careful what you wish for," she said, catching his eye in the mirror. He grinned back at her.

When they finally arrived, they found the auditorium packed with students and faculty, proud parents and grandparents. Joseph was stationed in front of the stage. There was a large orchestra pit just under the stage and he stood at the edge of it, scanning the crowd. Two other guards were stationed on the sides of the stage and others covered the back of the space.

He didn't listen to her speech. Instead he concentrated on his work. The speech must have been good though, given the laughter and spontaneous applause that broke out throughout the Queen's remarks.

The shoulders of his jacket barely moved as he flexed his upper back. He used isometric stretches to keep his muscles warm when duty required prolonged immobility. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd. A surreptitious check of his watch told him she would be finished soon.

Now he contracted the muscles in his abdomen, held them and released. Next he clenched the muscles of his thighs, cording them into long, hard strands, then releasing. As he continued, his gaze swept up to the ceiling and fixed on a movement in the catwalk.

He blinked, unsure of what he saw. Then a glint of light on steel confirmed his suspicion. He turned and gestured frantically to George, the guard positioned closest to the Queen on the stage. He couldn't get his attention. The second stage guard, Rafael, looked at Joe, but only raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Joseph indicated they should stop the speech and get the Queen away from danger. "Why?" Rafael mouthed, still not moving.

Furious and frantic, Joseph could no longer keep quiet. "Gun!" he yelled as he jumped the railing into the orchestra pit and headed for the stage. Rafael finally reacted - he and George rushed to the Queen.

Needless to say she was startled. The guards grabbed at her rather clumsily, but not understanding, she backed away from them. They became entangled and, just as a shot rang out, she fell backwards into the orchestra pit; right into Joseph's waiting arms.

Joseph caught her, stumbling slightly. She clutched frantically at his shoulders, then wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as he fought for his balance. Joseph gasped for breath, but was uncertain whether that was due to the exertion or the feel of her supple body pressed against his. He could feel her steamy breath on his neck. Surprise at his body's reaction to the burden in his arms flashed through his mind.

"Are you all right?" he managed to gasp.

"Yes," she whispered.

He sat her down and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her towards the back of the orchestra pit. There was a door there that led backstage. Holding Clarisse back against the wall, Joseph cracked open the door and surveyed the hallway beyond. The sound of the chaos above them filtered down, but the hallway appeared deserted.

Joseph reached back and took the Queen's arm. "Come on – we need to get out of here," he said.

She followed him without reply. They made it to the back exit without trouble. Again Joseph checked the view outside the door. The immediate vicinity was deserted, but he heard a car start and the scream of tires from the end of the alleyway. He caught a glimpse of the driver, but a hand holding a cell phone hid most of the profile. There was something familiar about the dark eyes. Joseph was certain he'd seen the man before.

The gunman managed to slip away in the confusion created when the Queen disappeared from the stage. Joseph led Clarisse around to the front of the building and bundled her into her limousine where she waited in safety while he notified the rest of the team they were heading back to the palace.

The Queen was silent as they started out. Joseph knew she had been deeply frightened by the experience and she would have to work her way through it at he own pace. He'd seen this before. He knew how she must feel – vulnerable, exposed. Her vestiges of safety and security had been ripped away. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, as far as he knew. Genovia was a small, peaceful country. There had never been any reason for anyone to attack the Queen or threaten her in any way. In the space of a few short moments, all that had changed. Within minutes her life had a whole new and undoubtedly unwelcome dimension.

Joseph also knew what would happen now. They would increase security and she would increase her barriers between herself and the outside world. Her public appearances would be fewer and smaller, more confined affairs. She would probably retreat into a world of her own, her own kind, her own activities, far removed from the eyes of the general public. It was a shame, really. The people of Genovia had so much to be proud of in their Queen. Her continuing presence among them would be sorely missed.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help but be slightly relieved that having the Queen less in the public eye would make his job easier.

"Stop the car, Joseph."

Her voice startled him for the second time that day and he hit the breaks more forcefully than he would have liked. She reached for the handle above her door to prevent herself from being slung into the floorboard. "What's wrong, Your Majesty? Are you hurt?" He was already unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the door handle before she could respond.

"I'm fine." Her voice had a touch of steel to it. "Turn the car around. We're going back."

"Going back?" He almost choked on the words. "What are you talking about?" he asked, forgetting the formal manner of address that was expected of him.

"I didn't finish my speech. This ceremony is important to those students. I'll be damned if I'm going to let this ruin it." She looked at him as if her very gaze would galvanize him to unflinching action. "Turn around."

"I can't do that, Your Majesty," Joseph began to explain. "It's much too…" He never got to finish the sentence because at that point she yanked open her door and stepped out onto the road.

"What the hell?!" he cried and jumped out of the driver's seat. She was walking away from him, back towards town. She didn't even look back. By now the other two cars had stopped and the guards were emptying onto the roadway, ready to assist with whatever was wrong.

Joseph ran after her, catching her in a few steps. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?" he thundered at her.

She merely raised a patrician eyebrow at him, then peeled his fingers disdainfully from her arm. "I'm going back to finish what I started."

"You won't get very far in those shoes," he raged. He knew he sounded like a petulant idiot, but she had caught him completely off guard.

She looked down at her feet, almost surprised by the sight of the designer heels she wore. He had a point. She raised her gaze back to his eyes.

"Fine. You can either drive me, or you can start looking for another job. I'm going back, with or without you."

The determination in her voice was no match for the resolve he saw in her eyes. This was going to get ugly. Already cars were slowing down as they passed, curious about the limousines parked on the side of the road. Someone recognized her. They honked their horn and yelled a greeting. She smiled brilliantly at the farm truck and waved a greeting in return.

"If all else fails," she said archly, "I have no doubt I'll be able to get a ride from a passing motorist. These shoes might even help." She smiled at him now. He was beaten. And he knew it.

"Get in the car," he sighed. "I'll take you back."

The ride back was a silent one. The Queen seemed for all intents and purposes to be enjoying the scenery and Joseph was silently cursing himself, wonder how in the world he had been played for such a sucker. How had she managed to convince him to allow this act of insanity?

The rest of the security team followed along behind as they retraced their route. Joseph pulled the car to a stop in front of the auditorium. He looked back at his passenger. She grinned at him in the rearview mirror. He had to reassert his authority here or she would take off on her own again and things would get totally out of hand. He'd never be able to do his job.

"If you so much as bat an eyelash towards this building before I've had it checked out, so help me God, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to the palace myself. I don't care _who_ you are. Is that understood?"

"Yes," she answered rather agreeably from the back seat. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She seemed to be perfectly innocent, as if that had been her plan all along. Shaking his head, he got out of the car and paced back and forth until the rest of the team assembled around him, awaiting instructions. The men gravitated towards his natural leadership, having been caught seriously lacking by the incident. Leaving two men behind to guard the Queen, he and the others searched the building and arranged with the school officials for the ceremony to continue.

When she was finally allowed to exit the safety of her car, Clarisse waved gaily to the gathered crowds. There was even more media there than had been earlier. The news of the attack had no doubt leaked out. The Queen completed her speech to riotous applause. She stayed to watch the degrees being conferred, and then, with a final wave to her subjects, she retreated once again to the safety of the car, ready for the long ride home.

Joseph sighed with relief as he shut the door behind her. He instructed his men to bracket the limo with their cars and not to stop under any circumstances on the way back home. Once inside the car himself, he again drove in stony silence.

Finally she spoke. "If I have to put up with you guarding me the rest of my life, don't you think it's going to be terribly boring if we don't speak?"

"The rest of your life? I thought I was going to have to look for another job," he mumbled less than graciously.

"I can't very well have you fired since you managed to keep me alive, now can I?"

He looked at her then, meeting her gaze in his mirror. "You didn't do anything to make it easier." He wasn't quite ready to bury the hatchet.

"I don't have to make it easier," she said evenly. "I have a job to do, just like you."

"Who'll do that job if you're dead? And I doubt His Majesty would appreciate your cavalier disregard for your own safety. What would he do if you were to get yourself killed?"

Clarisse laughed drily. "Don't ask," she said. He looked at her questioningly.

"Oh, come now, Joseph. You're an intelligent man. And don't think I haven't noticed how you pay attention to everything." She looked away from him and focused her gaze out the window. "Rupert wouldn't exactly be heartbroken if something happened to me."

Joseph started to answer, to throw out a denial. But he recognized there was probably truth in what she was saying. He stayed quiet and they rode in silence – a companionable silence – for a while.

She was different, he admitted to himself. The more time he spent with her, the more he began to realize how little of her true self she showed to the world. He kept an eye on her in his mirror as he drove. He didn't realize he was smiling.

"What?" she finally asked, throwing up her hands in mock frustration. "What is so amusing?"

He laughed and shook his head. "I was just thinking that you are an amazing and interesting person. I have a feeling that working for you is not going to be boring."

She smiled then. A real smile, he noted, catching the sparkle in her eyes. "Don't count on it. You haven't been to parliament with me yet!"


	6. Chapter 6

News of the assassination attempt blanketed local and international television stations and the Queen's return to the palace was recorded by no less than a dozen major news outlets. Reporters had been allowed inside the palace gates and security was barely managing to keep them out of the driveway. Clarrise acknowledged the cameras with a wave and a smile as Joseph helped her from the car.

The King awaited her at the top of the entrance stairs. Given the Queen's statement regarding her husband's lack of concern for her, Joseph assumed the enthusiastic embrace the King gave his wife was more of a show for the cameras than anything else.

When Rupert finally released her, Clarisse smiled and waved once again to the reporters before following her husband into the building. Joseph couldn't help but smile as he watched her. She was as calm and collected as if she'd just returned from a dinner engagement or a ribbon cutting. As he made his way through the entrance, headed to Robert's office for an official debriefing, the Queen was just starting up the stairs towards her own office. The King had already taken his leave and Charlotte was peppering her with updates on the work awaiting her upstairs. Clarisse paused and glanced back over her shoulder, catching Joseph's eye. She mouthed the words 'thank you'.

Joseph felt his face go slightly pink at the unexpected acknowledgment. He smiled and nodded in return before continuing on his way, trying desperately to keep the spring out of his step.

____________________________________________________

Although an internal investigation was conducted, there were never any arrests or charges made in the assassination attempt on the Queen. After reviewing hundreds of security files - scanning pictures - Joseph was almost certain the man he saw that day outside the auditorium was Mabrey. He relayed his suspicions to the Head of Security. And there they died.

Robert told Joseph he'd taken his information to the King, who summarily dismissed it. Joseph was furious at this and demanded to know why Parliament wasn't going to launch an official investigation into the matter. Robert explained that just wasn't how things were done in Genovia. The King had heard the evidence and that was the end of it.

Viscount Mabrey was never under official suspicion and privately he managed to convince Rupert that neither he nor the San Cayetano group had any part of the attempt. In the end, Rupert put the attack down to the work of a lone madman and congratulated himself on his forethought in securing a guard for Clarisse. Despite the nagging conviction in the back of his mind that Joseph had probably correctly identified the man he saw that day, it was easier to just believe Mabrey. If the Viscount were called on the carpet, Rupert knew he'd be putting his head in a noose right alongside Mabrey's. The scandal could destroy the monarchy. And the King couldn't let Genovia face that risk.

The remainder of that year passed quickly in Genovia. The King remained busy with his various pursuits but managed to do his duty towards his country as well. Joseph took over as head of the Queen's security and her personal bodyguard. He became a fixture in Clarisse's life. She had fully expected his presence to limit her, to make her uncomfortable and to leave her feeling confined. Instead he worked his way seamlessly into the fabric of her daily existence. He didn't follow at her heels like an over-eager puppy, but neither did he stand in a corner like another piece of office furniture. He just was. He knew just when to speak and just when to keep quiet.

Before she even realized what was happening, Clarisse came to rely on Joseph as her personal sounding board. He followed her train of so flawlessly that their brief conversations often made no sense to anyone else who happed to be listening.

Pierre continued to live at the palace and often accompanied his father to official functions and sat in on meetings of parliament, but his personality changed. There was a sense of joylessness about him. He no longer radiated the calm and contemplative goodwill that had marked his nature until now. He was gloomy and spent as much time as possible away from the palace, preferring time spent in study at the seminary or with friends in Rome.

Clarisse noticed the change in her son, but none of her efforts at drawing him out had been successful. She had no idea what was wrong and he had no intention of telling her.

Philippe was another story. He returned from America for a few weeks that summer. His personality, so much like that of his father's, brought a jovial goodwill to the palace. Clarisse reveled in the company of her youngest son. It was when she was with him, Joseph noted, that she most completely let her guard down – allowing her inner self to break through the walls of decorum and duty she built for herself.

Philippe made her laugh until tears ran down her face. He managed to drag her out of her office and away from the mountainous paperwork. He chided her for not visiting her stables more often and made sure she renewed her acquaintance with her beloved horses.

Philippe, who never met a stranger, soon learned that Joseph shared his love of American basketball and they spent several evenings together in the palace's gym, working on jump shots and free throws.

It was during one of those games that he told Joseph how happy he was that the body guard had come into his mother's life. When Joseph demurred, stating that he was just doing his job, Philippe waved away his remarks. "She needs friends, man. She's way too isolated. And I can tell you're a friend." He grinned and Joseph was saved from making a reply when the Queen herself stormed into the gymnasium.

"Christophe Philippe!" Clarisse Renaldi's voice bristled with all its official timbre. At the sound of his name, her son stopped bouncing the ball and grimaced at Joseph. "Would you care to explain yourself?" she demanded. She gestured towards him with the sheet of paper she was carrying.

"Explain what, Maman?" he asked innocently, his big brown eyes wide with feigned surprise.

She glared at him. "An appreciation of art and art history is very important Philippe. You know I would applaud any studies you undertook in that subject. But, really, Philippe -" she looked down and read from the paper. "The Nude – Female Anatomy in Contemporary Art?" Her voice dripped with disdain.

Philippe grinned at her. "I never skipped that class. It was very interesting."

"Mon Dieu, Philippe!"

Philippe turned back to Joseph. "Have you ever noticed that she only swears in French?" Joseph almost choked while trying to stifle his laughter. Clarisse glared at him and he immediately sobered.

"I don't know whether to be appalled or relieved that you barely passed this class," she said.

"Maman," Philippe began again. "It's not what you think. There was this girl in the class --."

"A naked girl?" she crossed her arms and glared at the young man.

"No!" Philippe laughed. "She was one of the artists and the only way I could get her to talk to me was to sit next to her in class. She's so serious about her work. She wouldn't give me the time of day, otherwise."

Clarisse eyed him suspiciously, but her gaze was softening. "So this was some sort of plot to advance your chances with this artist?"

"You'd like her, Maman. She's very independent. And she's a fabulous painter," he cajoled.

"Perhaps, Philippe," she conceded. "But don't let your pursuit of the opposite sex interfere with your education in the future. Understood?"

"Yes, Mother," he said formally. Then he grinned at her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before tossing the ball to Joseph and bounding out of the gym.

"He may well be the death of me, Joseph," she sighed.

He chuckled. "He's a bright young man – very perceptive."

"Yes, he is. He will be an excellent diplomat if he chooses a career in politics." She was silent for a moment, regarding Joseph out of the corner of her eye. "What has he been perceptive about with you?" Her voice was nonchalant, but her eyes were bright with curiosity.

Joseph shifted the basketball he held under his arm. "He said he's glad you and I are friends. He thinks you need more friends."

Her perfectly arched eyebrows arched just a little more. For a moment Joseph thought she was angry – whether at him or Philippe, he wasn't sure. Then she smiled.

"Friends? I think I like that," she said musingly. Joseph grinned at her.

"So, Friend, does this mean you'll finish the basketball game with me?" he teased.

She gave him a frosty look and shook her head. "That's not ever going to happen, you can be sure. However, if you are up to a friendly cup of tea I would enjoy your company on the terrace." She glanced at the sweaty t-shirt plastered to his skin and the muscled legs protruding from his gym shorts. "_After_ you change, of course."

Joseph laughed. "I'll be there in ten minutes," he said, trotting off in the direction of the dressing room.

Clarisse watched him go, fascinated by the smooth grace of his gait and almost regretting that she'd asked him to put on more clothes. Then, aghast that she would entertain such a suggestive thought about someone other than her husband, she turned on her heel and hastened back towards her office.

_________________________________________________

The annual Genovian Grand National Steeplechase was scheduled to take place during Philippe's visit. The horse race was one of the biggest social events of the year, rivaling the Independence Day celebration for royal pomp and circumstance.

The King and Queen were always in attendance and entertained the country's best and brightest in the royal box during the races. Clarisse loved the races, especially when her own beloved horses were in the running. The rest of the weekend, which involved stops at many balls at the homes of the country's aristocracy, was not as enjoyable. But she always looked forward to the lavish pre-race champagne breakfast and the day at the racetrack.

This year the monarchs would be joined only by their youngest son. Pierre had begged off and planned to spend the weekend on a retreat at a monastery. Rupert had rolled his eyes at his son's choice, but didn't argue the point. Clarisse's eyes were troubled as she once again wondered why Pierre was distancing himself from his family.

Determined to put away her misgivings and just enjoy the day, Clarisse and her ladies maids were putting the final touches on her race day attire when Rupert entered her suite. The family, knowing Clarisse would be the last to be ready, was to meet there before proceeding to the cars for the drive to the race track.

The door to her dressing room was open and Rupert came over to stand in the doorway. There was a huge grin on his face, which changed slightly when he looked at his wife, as she shrugged into the pale blue linen jacket which was tailored perfectly to her curves.

She caught his eyes in the mirror and returned his smile. Rupert's grin widened. "What is it that has you so amused?" she asked lightly.

Rupert shook his head. "Nothing really. It's just – well, I guess everyone is trying to get into the spirit of summer today." He chuckled and turned away at the sound of the outer door opening.

The sound of Philippe's laughter floated in to Clarisse as she reached for the large hat that would complete her outfit. Philippe joined his father in the doorway. Their eyes met and both burst into more laughs.

"What in the world is so funny?" Clarisse demanded.

"It has to be her doing," Rupert said to Philippe. "He'd never have done that on his own."

Philippe nodded and laughed even harder.

Clarisse, now fully dressed, turned on them with an exasperated expression. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I think you'll just have to see for yourself, my dear," Rupert managed to say. He and his son stepped aside, allowing Clarisse to precede them from the room. She shook her head in exasperation, then stopped to take her gloves from the ladies maid. Tucking her handbag under her arm, she began drawing the gloves on as Rupert opened the outer door for her. She stepped through the door, took two steps and stopped abruptly, one glove dangling halfway off her hand.

Joseph stood against the wall across from her door, obviously waiting to escort the family to the races, along with the rest of the security team. He was not at all happy. When he saw the Queen, he scowled at her from beneath lowered brows.

"Oh! Joseph!" Clarisse said, her eyebrows raised in surprise. She couldn't think of anything else to say. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hide her smile.

"Your Majesty," he all but growled at her.

Philippe laughed at out loud. "Is this Mother's fault, Joe?"

"Most definitely," Joseph agreed. Even Rupert was laughing now. "She told me this is the beginning of summer and I could not continue to dress in normal clothes."

"I did no such thing!" Clarisse declared. "I merely said you'd been wearing black for too long."

Joseph raised his hands in silent appeal to the male members of the royal family. He was wearing sand colored linen slacks, a thin white cotton shirt and a light blue cotton jacket. On anyone else the outfit would have coordinated beautifully with the Queen's dress and would have looked casually debonair – perfect for a day at the races. It made Joseph look slightly ill.

"Mother!" Philippe admonished Clarisse. "How could you?"

Clarisse bit back her laughter. Joseph was trying to glare at her, but amusement danced in his eyes. "I give up!" she said. "Please, please don't let me influence your wardrobe in the future Joseph. Obviously, I have no talent for it."

"Thank you, Madam," Joseph said as he bowed deeply. "I feel like an ice cream vendor in this outfit," he muttered as he rose. Rupert and Philippe laughed even harder and Clarisse smiled indulgently. "Would you like to change before we leave?" she asked.

"No, but thank you," he smiled. "I'll survive and then I can have the immense satisfaction of burning these clothes after we return tonight."

Although Clarisse now realized Joseph wasn't a person who should ever wear pastels, she couldn't help but notice on several occasions throughout their day that the light fabrics draped beautifully over his body. The breeze that occasionally molded the light cloth to the planes of his muscled chest caught her attention more than once.

It was one of the most enjoyable race days Clarisse could remember experiencing in a very long time.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarisse had to admit that she was unnerved by the envelope. Even though that wasn't entirely true. Truthfully she was frightened by it. She knew she shouldn't open it. She should call security – call Joseph – and let them deal with it.

But she just couldn't leave it alone.

It was nothing more than a plain, brown envelope, the size of a sheet of paper. Her name was pasted on the front of it; the words having been cut from a newspaper. Easy enough to do, hardly a day went by that her name wasn't in the newspaper somewhere. There were words stamped on the front in red ink as well – Private and Confidential. She found it under her desk on the dais in the Parliament Chamber. The envelope was placed where she could see it when she took her seat, but it was visible to no one else.

She'd retrieved the pouch and hidden it among her papers. Now that she was back at home, safely hidden behind the ornate doors of her private suite, she was going to open it.

Taking a deep breath, she surrendered to her curiosity and unhooked the flap and turned the envelope upside down, shaking its contents onto her desk. A single sheet floated out and landed face down on the wooden surface. She lifted it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, almost afraid to touch it.

It was a photo.

She fell back in her chair. The air rushed from her lungs as if she'd been struck by a heavy fist. She blinked, trying to refocus her gaze, but tears seemed determined to blur it. A soft sobbing sound escaped her lips, follow by a name.

She stood then, backing away from the scene staring up at her in glaring color. Her breath came in angry gasps. She tore her reading glasses away from her face and threw them as forcefully as she could onto the desk. Her anger grew, unabated. When she finally looked away from the picture, her gaze landed on a vase of flowers sitting on a table across the room. Moments later the vase lay shattered on the hearth, broken roses scattered amongst the pieces.

The one blood red rose in the arrangement caught her attention. She knelt to retrieve it from the floor and contemplated its perfect form for a moment before crushing it in her hand. The petals dropped to the floor and the bite of a thorn stung her palm. A drop of blood followed the path of the petals to the ground.

Still holding the mangled flower in her hand, she picked up the phone. She managed to keep her voice level while asking the switchboard to connect her with security. Joseph answered her page.

"I need your help," was all she managed to say.

He was at her door in less than a minute.

"I know I should have called you sooner and let you deal with this. But I didn't and I don't want to hear about it now," she said gruffly as she opened the door.

Joseph merely nodded and stepped past her into the room. "What is the problem?" he asked as his eyes swept over her, ascertaining that physically, at least, she was alright.

She motioned towards the desk. "Someone hid that under my desk in the Parliament chamber. I brought it back here and opened it." Joseph crossed the room to her desk and looked down at the picture. Clarisse sat down in a side chair, not looking at the picture.

There was silence for a long moment. Finally Joseph said quietly, "You touched both the envelope and the photograph?"

"Yes," she said, opening her fingers and finally dropping the crushed rose. Her hand was still bleeding slightly and her nails had imprinted small red half-moons around the perimeter of her palm. Suddenly Joseph was kneeling in front of her, taking her hand in his.

"Your Majesty! Did something in the envelope cut your hand?!"

"No…" she sighed. "It was just the thorns on the rose."

Joseph glanced over at the shattered remains of the bouquet and vase, recognizing it as a token she'd received from the King on their wedding anniversary only the day before. He looked up at her, then drew a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the blood away. The warmth of his skin was magnified against the coldness of hers. "I'm so very sorry, Your Majesty," he whispered.

She nodded her thanks and took a deep breath. He finished wiping away the blood and swept his thumb across her palm, leaving a small trail of heat where it touched. He looked up at her appraisingly, then stood and turned back to her desk.

"Do you know who this is?"

"Other than my husband, you mean?" Her voice was darkly sarcastic.

"Obviously." His voice was even, controlled.

"I have no idea who the woman is. You can't really see her _face_."

Joseph ignored her tone and nodded grimly as he studied the photo for a moment longer. "I can't understand why this was sent. There is no demand for money or anything else. Is there some purpose or was it just supposed to hurt you?"

"If so, it has succeeded." She stood now, hovering near his shoulder, still not looking at the photograph.

"Are you going to discuss this with His Majesty?" Joseph asked.

"Oh, God. I have to, I suppose." Her voice choked and she fought back the tears behind closed eyelids once again. She opened her eyes when she felt his hand on her arm. She tried to smile, but failed miserably. "I knew. I've always known, but th-this is…" She gestured helplessly towards the photo.

Joseph nodded sympathetically, not sure what to say. The two nude bodies intertwined in the photograph spoke louder than anything he could think of to say. The situation puzzled him. Who could have managed to have such close contact with the king that they could get such an intimate photograph? And what was the person's intention in sending it to the King's wife? Who was the intended target – King or Queen? Or both? As these thoughts raced through his head, Joseph noted Clarisse's white knuckles as she twisted his handkerchief between her hands, obviously at a loss as to what to do or say next.

Without thinking he reached out, his arm sliding across her shoulders. Even as he touched her, she turned into his embrace and they pulled each other close for a moment. At first the embrace felt completely natural. Then, horrified suddenly at the liberty he had just taken, Joseph loosened his arms and she pulled away. He tensed briefly, not sure what to expect. Clarisse still held onto his forearms and slowly turned her face up to his.

"You need to know who this woman is?" Clarisse asked suddenly, her voice stronger than before.

"It would help," Joseph replied quietly, his eyes searching her face.

"Fine." With that she reached around him, grabbed the photo off the desk and headed out her door.

"Your Majesty!" Joseph called behind her and started to follow. She turned in the doorway, her piercing gaze freezing him in his tracks. "Stay here. I'm going to talk to my husband."

He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already gone. He knew he couldn't stop her. But he would watch over her. Joseph ran down the hall in the opposite direction, headed towards the security office.

_______________________________________________________________________

Rupert did not respond. He'd barely looked at the photograph when she threw it down on his desk. Now he turned his attention back to the stack of papers he'd been poring over as if the conversation had never even happened.

The King knew full well the meaning of the photograph. The San Cayetano group was sending him a message. He'd pulled away from a few deals lately and had been slower to answer their summons. Realization was setting in with the King and he knew the cartel's business dealings were straying further over the line between legal and illegal. He was trying to back away from the group, but the consortium had informed him in no uncertain terms that they were not going to allow that. They wanted him to know that they held the power in this relationship. San Cayetano could hurt him far more than he could hurt them.

And now, facing the fury of his wife, he felt a sickening sense of dread. There was no choice – nothing he could do. He had to follow the path he'd started that day in his office when he asked Arthur Mabrey just how rich he wanted to be. Hurting Clarisse had never been his intention. But the damage had been done and there was nothing he could do about it now. For the first time in his memory, their positions were reversed. She railed at him – angry and hurt – and his only response was to sit quietly and absorb her wrath.

Clarisse had demanded the name of the woman. When he refused to tell her, she became even more incensed, thinking mistakenly that he meant to protect the woman. Rupert didn't see how telling his wife that he didn't even know the other woman's name would be helpful. He kept silent. Clarisse wanted to throttle him. This was their life they'd were discussing, not some agricultural abnormality or some errant parliamentary debate. How could he be so cold and uncaring?

Unable to get Rupert to even discuss the photo, Clarisse was overcome with anger and frustration. All he would say was that it was an unfortunate indiscretion on his part and he would see that it was handled appropriately. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw a fit to force him to admit how vitally important this was to them both. But he barely even acknowledged the gravity of the situation. Realizing further discussion was hopeless, she ran.

She turned on her heel without another word and slammed the office door behind her. She didn't even know where she was going as her heels beat a hard, fast rhythm down the marbled hallway. Faster and faster she walked -- she was almost running by the time she made it to the garden. Habit drew her down the cobbled pathway to her greenhouse. Her vision blurred and her breathing was ragged. She managed to reach the door and jerk it open before collapsing against the wall, just inside. She gripped her abdomen and slid down the wall as a wave of despair rolled over her.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she put her face down and gave herself over to the tears. She cried harder than anytime she could remember since she was a child. For months – years – she had kept her pain and anger hidden behind a wall of denial. Now that wall crumbled around her, leaving her exposed and overcome. Muffled sobs wracked her body and she fairly shook as she battled her emotions. After what seemed like eons, she felt, rather than heard, the door next to her open.

She started violently, appalled that anyone would see her like this. Feeling guilty that she'd let her guard down and given herself over to tears, she brushed her eyes with her hands and tried to scramble to her feet. A hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Don't mind me," a deep voice rumbled. "I just brought you a handkerchief."

Joseph dropped to the ground next to her, holding out another square of white linen. She was silent for a moment, trying to breathe normally again, before taking the cloth and dabbing at her eyes.

She frowned at the mascara darkening the fabric as he spoke, "Don't stop on my account." She glanced over at him and caught sight of the shine in his eyes. "In fact, if you keep this up, I'll probably have to join you."

She couldn't help but laugh a little at that. "Misery loves company, I guess," she said.

"Something like that," he agreed. After a pause he started to stand, "I'll get back to my office and leave you alone."

She gripped his wrist with a surprising fierceness. "No, don't. Please. I don't need a bodyguard right now, but I could really use a friend."

He nodded and smiled. "This is the second of my handkerchiefs that you've messed up today," he said with a grin. "And I thought you were supposed to be some sort of 'Ice Queen'. You seem to be slipping a bit, Your Majesty."

"Oh, I hate that!" she was surprised by how angry she sounded. "People just see a figurehead – no one expects me to be a real person. Not even my own husband, evidently."

"His loss."

"Not really. It helps him feel free to pursue his other relationships."

"Could you change that?"

"I doubt it. I don't even really want to. Not anymore." She wiped away the last of her tears and tried to calm her breathing. "Do you think real marriages have these sorts of problems, Joseph?"

"Real marriages?" he asked. "I suppose so; perhaps some do. Marriage is a serious commitment. I can't imagine breaking those vows once they've been made. I guess that's why I never got married. I've never found a woman who interested me enough for me to imagine spending the rest of my life with her. I guess I've never really been in love." He chuckled somewhat wistfully. "I've been in lust a few times, though."

She smiled at that. "I've never been in love either. Never had the chance."

"Why not play his game – have an affair?"

"Double standards. It would never be acceptable for me to do that. It would harm the country, my children. And I don't want to stoop to that level."

He nodded in understanding. "You're an amazing woman, Your Majesty," he said quietly. His dark gaze locked onto her eyes. "He's a fool." Before she could respond, he was on his feet and holding his hand out to her. She let him help her up, facing him expectantly. He looked down into her face, now avoiding her eyes. He smiled wistfully and reached out to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear. "Lovely as always," he said. She searched his eyes with her own, but just as she reached out for him, he stepped back and opened the greenhouse door. "Shall we head back inside?"

She nodded mutely and looked away. The moment had passed, but as she preceded him down the path towards the palace she could feel his heated gaze as he followed along, just a step behind. She found that she could pull strength from that feeling alone, and with each step she stood straighter and her carriage regained its regal bearing. Just as they reached the palace doors, she turned back and smiled her thanks. His only reply was a roguish grin.

Neither Clarisse nor Joseph looked at the windows on the upper floors of the palace as they walked back. If they had, they would have seen the King of Genovia staring down at them, one hand pressed against the window, palm flat and fingers splayed. What they wouldn't have seen were the tears shining in his eyes or the shredded bits of photograph that littered the gleaming marble floor beneath his feet.


	8. Chapter 8

Rupert didn't see Clarisse at dinner that evening. She sent word by a maid that she had a headache and would have a light supper in her rooms. Rupert didn't eat much either, instead busied himself with pushing the food around on his plate. Pierre was once again absent from the palace, in the middle of a three week trip to Italy. The large dining room felt bigger and emptier than ever before. And he felt like a fool.

Finally, he gave up completely and rose from the table. He told the waiter he was finished – there was no need for the remaining courses.

"Is there a problem, sir?" the waiter asked, eyeing the plate, still full of food.

"Yes, there is, but it's not with the food," he answered. The King dropped his linen napkin next to the plate. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the marble floor as he walked out of the dining room.

Rupert climbed the stairs of the private family wing. He paused, fully intending to go to Clarisse. But he didn't know what to say. After a few moments, he turned away from her hall and towards his billiard lounge. Once ensconced in the safety of the dark mahogany paneling and the soft green velvet, he racked up the billiard balls and poured himself a large brandy.

He made a few half-hearted shots as he worked his way through his drink. Finally draining his glass, he tossed the cue on the table and strode out of the room, headed towards his wife.

This time he knocked and waited for her invitation before entering the rooms. As he stepped through the doorway, his eyes sought out Clarisse, finding her seated at her writing desk, glasses low on her nose as she bent over her work. Her pen scratched furiously across paper.

Rupert didn't speak and eventually Clarisse looked up, somewhat distractedly. Seeing her husband standing across the room, she laid the pen down and removed her glasses, laying them to one side.

"Clarisse, I know I shouldn't be asking this of you," Rupert began haltingly, "but I need you, and, and…" His voice trailed off as he struggled for what he wanted to say.

Clarisse glanced at the clock and noted how late it was. Suddenly realization dawned and her gaze turned to stone. Pushing her chair back so she could stand, she addressed the King in an ice cold voice. "No, Rupert." She raised her voice slightly. "Hell no!"

Rupert's confusion was evident in his face for a moment. She never used profanity, even the mildest of expletives, other than the occasional mild exclamation in French. Then he realized why she thought he had come to her rooms so late in the evening.

"Oh, Clarisse, no – I'm sorry! That's not why I'm here." He took a step towards her. "Please - I just need to talk to you."

"Talk about what?" she asked, still eyeing him guardedly and keeping the barrier of her desk between them.

Rupert looked down at his feet, shifting uncomfortably. Finally he gestured to the couch in front of the fireplace. "Can we sit down? Please?"

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and moved to the sitting area. Rupert seated himself at the end of the couch, but she chose the wingback chair next to it, rather than sitting next to her husband. Both of them stared into the fireplace, perhaps imagining the warm, friendly flames that would be dancing on the hearth in a cooler season.

Clarisse did not seem inclined to speak, not even to voice curiosity as to why he was there.

"I should have come here sooner, Clarisse. I shouldn't have even let you leave my office this morning without speaking to you about this. I was just...frightened, I suppose." He hadn't looked at her while speaking.

Clarisse studied him carefully. "Frightened of what, Rupert?"

"Losing of your respect, Clarisse." He finally looked at her. "That is more important to me than you could possibly know."

"Respect?" Her voice was coldly curious.

"Yes. I don't want to loose our rapport, Clarisse. Not over something like this." He raised pleading eyes to hers.

"Something like this," she repeated softly. "How small you make it sound. And perhaps you're right. Perhaps it is small – a trifle between us."

"We have a good relationship. I've always appreciated that."

"Yes, I can well imagine you've told all your women how good our relationship is." Her voice dripped sarcasm.

He winced and stared at the hearth again. "I've done things I'm ashamed of Clarisse. I admit to being weak in some areas. I don't know if I can change that, but I will try. And that's what I came to say. I will do my best to change. I want to regain your trust.

"I know I'm not the man you'd have me be. There are sides to my personality that I'm ashamed of. Selfishness has always been a problem for me. My own sense of self-importance was fueled by my upbringing. I'm not blaming my parents for who I became, but I guess what I'm saying is that I never learned, until much later than most, that my actions can cause grief and harm to others. No one ever told me I was doing anything wrong. They just made things right. It wasn't until Pierre and Philippe were born that I realized what a mistake that was." He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "I'm a weak man, Clarisse. I know I've made some horrible decisions and done some things that have deeply hurt you. I'm sorry. Truly sorry. It was never my intention to cause you pain."

She rose from her chair and crossed the room to stand in front of the cold fireplace, staring down at the hearth tiles. Rupert watched her anxiously from his seat.

"I've known about your unfaithfulness for a long time, Rupert. And I suppose I've just ignored it, putting my head in the sand. But for you to be so careless, so thoughtless, as to allow yourself to be photographed in such a state -- not only did it hurt me, it scared me. What have you done to make someone want to do this to you – to us? Or perhaps it is something I have done. Whatever the cause, this sort of vitriol directed against us is deeply, deeply disturbing. I'm not going to waste time condemning you for this, but I want to know what is going on." She turned to face him, her eyes burning with the fire that was missing from the hearth. "I need to know what you've been hiding from me."

"Hiding?" Rupert sounded genuinely surprised. "Well, I thought I had hidden the women from you, but evidently not. But you know me; you know my business as well as you know your own." He spread his hands and returned her stare with widely innocent eyes.

Clarisse narrowed her gaze thoughtfully as she regarded him. "There is noting else? I find that hard to believe." She crossed her arms over her chest.

Rupert laughed nervously. "Isn't this enough?"

She shook her head. "You've changed Rupert. Your work has changed. Something is occupying your time, something other than running your country. Perhaps I'm being jaded, but I don't think your liaisons are important enough to make you do that."

Rupert sighed and seemed to slump lower into the couch cushions. "I know I've left more and more of the work to you Clarisse. You are so good at it that it was easy for me to shirk my duties at times. I've been distracted, yes, but I've never lost sight of what we are doing and building here in Genovia. I've never done anything that would hurt Genovia. Not intentionally, at least." He stood now, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. "I know how trite this is, but none of those women meant anything to me, Clarisse. You are the only one I care about. And I care for you very deeply. I want you to understand that; it's so important."

Clarisse was silent for a moment. The only sound was the ticking of the mantle clock, marking the unchanging passage of time. Finally she seemed to come to a decision of some sort. She pulled her shoulders straighter and tugged at the hem of her jacket. Her eyes fixed on Rupert's and she spoke. "I won't leave you, Rupert. We both know that. That would be impossible. I will, of course, continue our work. Genovia is too important to me to let something like this derail everything we've worked for. But understand this – I don't trust you. Perhaps someday that will change, but not today. And not tomorrow. It's going to take time and a lot of work from you for that to ever change."

Rupert looked at her, a spark of optimism in his expression. He stepped closer and reached out, taking her hand in his. "You've given me hope, Clarisse," he said, his voice stiffly formal as he bowed low over her hand. He brushed his lips across her skin. "I will do everything within my power to win your regard."

When he raised his eyes to hers, they glimmered with hope and relief. "I promise, Clarisse."

She returned his gaze and simply nodded her head in agreement. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then turned and left the room. Clarisse stood motionless in front of the fireplace, tears trembling in her eyes. Once again she crossed her arms in front of her chest, her posture an outward indication of the walls she was busily reinforcing inside her heart.

________________________________________________________________________

Joseph cursed his own idiocy. Relief washed over him when the security monitor showed the King exiting the Queen's apartment. How had he let things come to such a point? How could he be jealous of a man spending time with his own wife? Tearing his eyes away from the monitors, Joseph stood up and stretched. His muscles were tense. He crossed the dark room to the coffee pot and refilled his mug. Even as he poured the coffee, his eyes stole back over to the display, searching for her. There were no cameras inside her private rooms, thus the guards on duty outside the doors. The guards stood at ease, watching and waiting.

Sighing loudly, Joseph made his way back over to his desk chair and sat. The steaming cup in his hand seemed to hold his interest as he thought about the situation. Why was he so concerned about her unhappiness? Since when did his job entail ensuring the Queen's emotional wellbeing? When did his feelings of protectiveness towards her change from merely concern about her physical safety to what they were now? What, exactly, did he feel towards her – his employer?

A movement on one of the screens caught his eye and he gave the monitors his full attention again. The Queen stepped out onto her balcony. She appeared to contemplate the moonlit gardens before her before turning her back and leaning against the balustrade. Arms crossed, head down, she looked tense and tired. Eventually she reached up and ran a hand through her hair, then took a last look over her shoulder at the garden before going back inside. In another few minutes the light in her bedroom window was extinguished.

The palace was quiet. All was secure. Joseph sighed once more.


	9. Chapter 9

Joseph watched the Queen carefully for the next few weeks. There was a distance about her that he hadn't seen before. She was more of the Ice Queen than ever, despite her admittance of how much that bothered her. It seemed that she had closed herself off from any unnecessary personal interaction with even those closest to her. Joseph was worried that her reaction was due to the personal advances he'd made towards her the day she'd received the photo.

Then one night he'd met Clarisse's assistant Charlotte in the kitchen as they both were searching for a midnight snack. Over cookies and milk Charlotte expressed her worries about the Queen. Joseph realized it wasn't just him – she was shutting everyone out. The two of them agreed to renew their efforts at drawing the Queen out and trying to make life easier for her in any way they could.

There efforts were initially met with little more than stony silence, but before their persistence the ice began to thaw and some of the old sensibilities returned. Within a few weeks the Queen was once again engaging those around her and her staff was significantly less stressed.

More than once lately, when Joseph had returned his attention to the Queen after being diverted elsewhere, he found the Queen staring at him, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Something about that look made him blush, something he thought himself practically incapable of. He had no idea what that meant, but he knew it had something to do with the memory of how her body felt, fitting so perfectly into his arms, during their brief embrace weeks before.

That wasn't the only memory tugging at his conscience. He was almost certain that she would have allowed him to kiss her that same afternoon in the greenhouse. The fact that he had no idea where he'd found the willpower to step away from her was not at all comforting. If presented with a similar situation in the future, he wasn't even remotely sure that he could keep from disgracing himself before his Queen.

Charlotte knocked even as she was turning the doorknob to enter the Queen's office. Joseph was right on her heels. Clarisse looked up from her paperwork.

"You have a meeting with Lord Haversmith in just a few minutes, Your Majesty. Since Joseph is here, shall I send his Lordship in as soon as he arrives?" Charlotte asked.

"Yes, please do," Clarisse replied, setting down her pen and taking off her reading glasses. She smiled welcomingly at Joseph. "I still don't understand why it is necessary for me to have a bodyguard during all my meetings." Her complaint was good-natured and one that Joseph had heard before.

"Your Majesty knows that the Head of Security insists on your having security present during any encounters with persons from outside the palace staff. He is most understandably concerned with the Queen's safety." Joseph's voice was serious and measured, but his eyes twinkled at the Queen. "And since he is my immediate supervisor, I find it prudent to follow his orders."

Clarisse raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. "You think Robert is worried that I would be somehow injured by a visiting diplomat? Not likely, unless I have to dance with one of them. Then my feet pay a terrible price."

Joseph smiled and purposefully took his position against the far wall, crossing him arms and looking as imposing as possible. Charlotte smiled at the two of them. This argument was old news and one that the Queen was not going to win. It was good to see the Queen in such a good mood. Charlotte hadn't heard Her Majesty tease Joseph like this for quite some time.

Clarisse regarded Joseph thoughtfully for a moment, then turned her attention to her assistant. "I suppose I can understand Robert's concern in this case. There is something about Lord Haversmith that I've always found, well, intimidating."

Charlotte's eyes widened in surprise. "Lord Haversmith?" she asked, trying not to sound incredulous.

"Well, yes, Charlotte. I _know_ you've met him before." Charlotte caught the subtle emphasis in the Queen's statement. "And you must have felt it too. There is a certain forcefulness to his personality. He has a singular drive toward whatever his goal is. I find that sort of determination and raw power rather…intriguing. Don't you?" Clarisse's voice was positively coy.

Catching on to the Queen's game, Charlotte grinned. "Oh yes, Your Majesty. Intriguing is exactly the right word. There is something rather…captivating and compelling about his lordship."

"Indeed, Charlotte. Indeed," the Queen said musingly. She was careful to avoid Joseph's eyes, but stared dreamily out the window, instead. She leaned over on her desk, and rested her chin on her hand, one finger tracing her lips. She tried not to laugh at Charlotte's sudden coughing fit, which was undoubtedly a cover for her assistant's own laughter. "How much longer until he arrives?" she asked, her voice taking on a sultry undertone.

"I don't recall seeing a clearance report on any Haversmith," Joseph interrupted. "Has he been cleared by security previously?" His voice held the slightest tinge of what might have been concern.

"It's been years since he was last here. I'm sure Robert has vetted him before," Clarisse replied, sitting up straight in her chair once more. "Besides, you'll be glued to the wall in here as usual during my meetings. What could possibly happen?" She pretended to be irritated.

"Just who is this Haversmith?" Joseph asked lightly, but his voice betrayed his curiosity.

"Martin Haversmith is a wonderful man," Clarisse said, speaking seriously this time. "I served with him on a UNICEF board at the United Nations for several years. He's a man of high principles – positively daring when it comes to administering international charitable funds. ." Clarisse let some of the flirtation slip back into her speech. "There is just something so…exciting about him when he is faced with a fiduciary dilemma or a question of administrative procedure." Clarisse bit her lip. She steadfastly refused to look at Charlotte who was by now positively red in the face from suppressed laughter. "Martin – that's his name, Martin – is not a man to be trifled with."

Charlotte jumped to her feet and made a beeline for the door. "I'll just wait for him outside," she said over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her. Clarisse turned away to hide her smile. Joseph kept his position and managed to look grumpy.

Clarisse sat down at her desk again and shuffled through her paperwork. Within a few minutes, Charlotte's knock sounded at the door.

"Your Majesty, Lord Haversmith," Charlotte said formally then backed away to allow the gentleman to enter.

He shuffled into the room and immediately bent low over the Queen's outstretched hand. "So lovely to see you again, Your Majesty," he said. Clarisse looked over the man's hairless head at Joseph. She smiled broadly at him and was rewarded with a grin from her guard. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her joke.

Haversmith was a short man, bald and plump. He looked like a happy friar rather than a powerful politician. His voice was somewhat high pitched and breathless, as if he'd just climbed a long flight of stairs – which, in fact, he had. The nobleman reminded Joseph of a mid-level bureaucrat in a huge accounting firm – the type of man who seldom sees the light of day and is content to slave away in an overly-lit cubicle somewhere, crunching endless streams of numbers.

"I'm glad to see you as well, Martin," Clarisse purred, motioning him to a seat across form her desk. "It's been a long time. What brings you to Genovia?"

"Are you familiar with the San Cayetano Casino group, Your Majesty?" he asked, dispensing with pleasantries and jumping immediately into business.

Clarisse frowned slightly. "I've heard the name, but I don't honestly know much about it. When it comes to casinos, my husband is the expert," she said drily.

Haversmith explained, in stultifying detail, that he'd been involved in an investigation of the consortium for the past several months. It all started when he'd been approached about selling his estate to the group as a site for building their first resort in his home country of Monrovia. Haversmith owned a large tract of undeveloped land along the coastline. He had refused all offers.

The consortium was persistent to the point of being threatening. Haversmith, who was now Monrovia's Minister of Justice, had begun an investigation into the cartel's business practices. The more he dug, the more dirt he found.

"I knew, of course, of the Genovian royal family's impeccable reputation," Haversmith said and Clarisse inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment. "However I found some things that were rather disturbing that I thought you should be advised of."

"Such as?" she asked.

"One name that turns up over and over again is that of Viscount Arthur Mabrey, a member of your parliament, I believe? He is evidently deeply invested in the consortium. I've not found direct evidence of anything illegal on his part, but there are too many mentions of him for me not to be suspicious. The real reason I'm here, however, is because the Renaldi name has show up as well." He paused and looked up from studying his hands clasped in his lap.

Clarisse raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You don't think –"

"No, I don't think the Crown is involved in anything illegal," he was quick to assure her. "My investigation so far leads me to believe that perhaps this man Mabrey is using the King's name as a means of gaining access to the cartel. I would have spoken to His Majesty directly about this, of course, but I did not want to appear accusatory. Therefore, I've presumed on our previous acquaintance, Your Majesty, to bring this matter to your attention and to let you inform the King as you see fit."

"I appreciate your discretion, Martin," she replied warmly. "I will certainly take this matter to Rupert. He needs to know what is going on. I'm sure he will take measures against the Viscount to put a stop to this."

Lord Haversmith, apparently feeling he'd done his duty, made a half-hearted attempt at the social niceties before turning down an invitation to tea due to prior engagements. After his departure, Clarisse sat quietly, staring at her desk calendar. Joseph was on his way out the door when she called his name.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"What do you know about Viscount Mabry and his friendship with the Rupert?'

"Not a lot. I know that they are close and enjoy many of the same activities," he said diplomatically.

"That's about all I know, as well," she said, more to herself than him. "But, I wonder…" Her voice trailed off as she traced distracted patterns on her desktop with a manicured nail.

After a moment's hesitation she looked up and met his gaze with steely resolve. "Do you know what I wish, Joseph?"

"What do you wish?"

"I wish life had been less like a fairy tale. Prince Charming remains charming, now that he's King, but that wears thin after a while," Clarisse said with a rueful smile.

Joseph smiled, too. "Surely, Your Majesty, there is more to the King than just charm."

Clarisse stood and came around her desk to stand next to him. She regarded him for a moment as she leaned against the polished wood surface. Then her gaze shifted to the windows. "He's a liar."

Joseph cleared his throat nervously. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again, obviously unsure of what he could say.

She looked at him quizzically, surprised by his discomfort. "It's true. He has lied for so long, it doesn't even really seem like lying to him. Not any more.

"What happens if he's lying about this?"

"This? If he's hiding Mabrey's crimes? He could involve the crown in an international scandal. It could be disastrous – undermine confidence in Genovia on world markets. Our trade agreements could become suspect. Genovian business practices would be questioned. Our people would suffer for it. If Rupert's involvement was too deep, then the only way to restore confidence might be for him to step down and abdicate."

"What would happen to you?" He looked at her intently.

"Me?" she repeated, somewhat surprised. "I…I have no idea." She chuckled self-consciously. "I hadn't thought that far ahead. Hopefully the situation is not that serious. I'm sure there's nothing really to worry about. Regardless of his faults, Rupert loves his country."

"Whatever happens, I will protect you," Joseph said solemnly.

"That's your job." Her voice was carefully neutral.

"It is. And I'm very, very good at it." His smile belied his serious tone.

"I've noticed." Clarisse said softly. She looked him in the eye, unsure of what she saw there. Breaking eye contact, she stood straighter and moved over to look out the window. "You know what I'd do if I wasn't queen, Joseph?"

"I've no idea." She didn't notice that he'd followed her and was standing an arm's length behind her.

"I'd get a divorce." She laughed to herself and turned back towards the office, somewhat startled to find Joseph standing right behind her.

"And then what?" he asked with a mischievous smile. "Trolling the Riviera with swarthy east European aristocracy? Being wined and dined by the most handsome and eligible men that high society has to offer? Playing the field?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, pretending to take offense. "Absolutely not! Not at all." She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and smoothed a hand down the lapel of his jacket. "I'd find the perfect man and I'd fall hopelessly in love, then live happily ever after – just the two of us."

He reached up and captured her hand with his own. "And what, exactly, constitutes the 'perfect man' Your Majesty?"

She smiled up at him. "That, my dear Joseph, remains to be seen."

Soft laughter rumbled out of his chest as he pressed his lips to her wrist. "I wish you luck with your search, should it ever come to that, Your Majesty." He released her hand, bowed low, and left her office.

Clarisse returned to her desk and her work. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly as she worked through the mountain of documents. More than once she caught herself staring at the inside of her wrist. She was almost surprised that there was no imprint on the skin.

He'd burned her flesh with his lips, yet his kiss left no mark.


	10. Chapter 10

The weeks following Lord Haversmith's visit passed in surprising peace and calm in the Genovian palace. Clarisse confronted Rupert about Haversmith's warning and the King feigned concern over what could be happening. He admitted that perhaps he'd trusted the Viscount with too much power, too quickly, and promised reign him in. Appeased by meeting such little resistance, Clarisse willingly agreed to let Rupert arrange for a quiet investigation into the matter.

She was further mollified when Joseph mentioned that the security logs showed the Viscount had been summoned and would be at the palace the next day. Evidently her husband had seen reason where his friend was concerned. It appeared he was giving the situation proper consideration, at the very least.

Against her better judgment, Clarisse let the matter drop – choosing to believe that Rupert was handling it, rather than nagging him for results. The monarchy settled back into their established patterns of work. They seldom met except across the expanse of their dining table. Relations were shallow, but not strained.

Rupert kept his secrets. Clarisse did her duty. Joseph watched and listened.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The King and Queen were escorted out of the Italian embassy and into the waiting limousine. King Rupert's assistant, Jack, was waiting for them and handed the king a stack of papers to peruse on the trip back to the palace.

"These are the notes from the meeting, along with the mediation reports from both sides," Jack said, indicating the sheaf of paperwork. "You have a meeting with the Minister of Trade for a progress update, once we get back to the palace. Will Her Majesty be attending as well?" he asked innocently, his eyes straying over to the Queen's legs as she swept them inside the vehicle. He snapped eyes his quickly back to those of the King.

Rupert managed to hide his surprise at both the salacious look in his assistant's eyes and the assumption that he would need his wife at the trade meeting. He snatched the paperwork from Jack before getting into the car, next to Clarisse. As the car sped through town, headed towards the highway, he flipped through the reports on the trade summit. Clarisse chatted with Joseph, who was driving the car, and made a few comments to her husband about the events of the meeting. He kept his answers non-committal and managed to give the impression that he was deeply involved in his paperwork.

After several minutes, Clarisse, too, began to peruse the notes she'd made and the conversation ceased. Rupert watched her out of the corner of his eye. She seemed absorbed in the information she was reading. Their meeting with the group of foreign ambassadors that morning appeared to have gone smoothly for all present. All except the King.

He alone realized that Clarisse was the one directing the negotiations. She'd evidently done her homework and was much better prepared than he. There was no ego involved in her performance and she'd managed to skillfully feed him his lines without anyone being the wiser. He wasn't even entirely sure she realized what she was doing.

'Since when did I start relying on my wife to do my job?' he thought, shoving the pages Jack had given him back into the envelope. There were a lot of problems weighing on his mind lately. It was only natural that Clarisse was picking up his slack. Without even realizing it, he had ceded power to his wife and he was headed towards being simply a diplomatic figurehead.

Feeling the pressure starting to build in his head, Rupert closed his eyes and leaned forward, head in his hands. "Are you all right, Rupert?" she asked quietly.

"I'm fine," he replied, sitting up straight again. "Just a bit of a headache coming on."

"Joseph," she addressed the front seat. "Do you have any aspirin?"

Joseph nodded and reached into a small dashboard compartment, never taking his eyes from the road. He handed a small bottle over his shoulder. "Thank you," she said, fingers brushing over his hand as she took it from him. She passed the bottle to her husband and reached for the door to the small refrigerator, knowing it was always kept stocked with cold water.

As he took the bottle she offered him, he grumbled, "So now you think I can't even take care of my own headache?"

"Excuse me?" she said sharply.

"Oh, forget it." He smiled at her. "Thank you," he said pointedly.

She gazed at him a moment longer, then turned her attention back to her paperwork. Rupert swallowed two of the pills, and continued to sip from the water bottle as he watched her. After some minutes, he reached over and jerked the paperwork out of her fingers. "You work too much," he said.

She was a little startled by the abruptness of his movement. "You're being childish, Rupert. Let me have my notes, please." She held out a hand towards him. "One of us has to be prepared," she snapped.

Rupert almost yelled in frustration. She reached over to pull the papers free of his grasp. Just as she did, he leaned forward and planted a wet kiss on her lips.

She pulled back in surprise. "What are you doing?" she yelped at him. The notes dropped unnoticed at her feet.

"I've always thought you were beautiful when you're angry," he said, his tone of voice matching the leering grin on his face.

"I'm not angry," she said more loudly than she'd intended.

His smile widened and he moved even closer to her. "You're getting angry," he said, poking the end of her nose with his finger. He knew she hated that.

She slapped his hand away. "Rupert! Get your hand out of my face."

He did as she asked and reached across her body to press the button on her armrest that raised the privacy screen. As he did, he pressed another kiss to her lips. Her hands came to rest on his chest, pushing him away from her.

"Will you stop? Please!" she grumbled. He sat back and she reached over to lower the privacy screen again. She glared at him as she did so.

He knew he shouldn't do it, but he smirked at her. The clumsy kisses had served their purpose of taking her mind off her work. And he wasn't above provoking her just for the sheer enjoyment of it. The prim and proper façade cracked when she was angry with him and he loved taking advantage of that. It was one of the few ways he could best her.

She picked up the paperwork she'd been studying previously and tried to straighten it. She managed to sound huffy even as she shuffled the forms. Rupert leaned in again, covering her mouth with his.

"Rupert!" Her exclamation was muffled against his lips. He refused to cease his carnal exploration of her oral cavity. The kiss became quite heated. He once again reached for the button and raised the privacy barrier. The sound of it clicking into place seemed to get through to her and she managed to squirm away from her husband's embrace.

She was breathing heavily with what she hoped was only exertion. "Stay away from me. I'm not going to do this!"

"Clarisse," he said softly, running a finger down the side of her face. "What are you afraid of? No one can see us."

Turning her head away she indicated the front of the car. "Have you forgotten Joseph?"

"Of course not! But he can't see us. And I promise to be quiet, so he won't hear us either!" He grinned rakishly. "Come on, Darling. Let's forget all this work and just relax." His hand rested on her knee and his fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt.

Anger replaced frustration in her eyes. "You don't even try to understand me, do you? It's not about what Joseph can see or hear. It's about what he knows is happening. I know you have few qualms about where and even with whom you make love, but I am not like you, Rupert!" With that, she scooted as far away from him as she could and lowered the privacy barrier. As the darkened glass slid down into its housing she blushed deeply as she caught Joseph's reflection in the rear-view mirror. She couldn't see past the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but she had no doubt his eyes were focused on her.

"With whom?" Rupert repeated. The sound of his voice drew his wife's attention. "That's all in the past, Clarisse."

"Is it? You could have fooled me, darling."

"Clarisse!" he sounded almost hurt. "You don't believe me?"

"You haven't given me much reason to believe you, Rupert."

The image of his latest conquest flashed across his mind's eye. He couldn't remember exactly who the woman was – an embassy employee on his last trip abroad - but he knew it was after the time the photo of him and another woman had been sent to his wife. He'd made a promise to himself at that time to stop all the philandering.

He'd cut back. He tried to be more discrete. But he hadn't stopped.

And why should he? Clarisse obviously didn't want him. He turned away from her, staring blankly at the scenery speeding past. 'If she were more interested in me, I would be more interested in her. Hell, she's more worried about Joseph's feelings than she is mine,' he mused petulantly to himself. Once that thought had fully settled on his mind, he glanced up at his driver. Joseph's expression was stonily neutral.

He looked from the security guard over to his wife, who was studying the scenery outside her window. He wondered.

Clarisse was always kind to the servants, but she treated them as servants. She'd been born and bred into the aristocracy and now royalty and she'd been used to having people wait on her all her life. She didn't fraternize with the staff.

But she did with Joseph.

He'd never realized it before. He looked back from Clarisse to Joseph. He could feel the man's eyes on him from the mirror. There was no expression; nothing untoward on his countenance, but the very fibers of the man's being seemed to seethe disapproval. Rupert was almost certain Joseph was angry at him.

Rupert pushed the privacy button once again, while watching Joseph's profile from the corner of his eye. He saw a muscle twitch in the man's jaw as the smoked glass separated the car into two compartments.

Clarisse glared over at him.

He smiled at her. "Truce, my dear? I really don't want to fight."

Clarisse sighed resignedly, then nodded.

"Thank you," he said. He leaned in again, his eyes asking her permission. The almost imperceptible nod granted it. Their lips met in a soft kiss. Rupert snaked his arm around her neck and held her tightly to him for a moment, just as he lowered the privacy glass a final time. He made sure Joseph was granted a view of the Queen in his arms, willingly participating in his advances.

"Thank you," he whispered again as he finally broke the kiss.

She didn't say anything, simply nodded again and turned her attention back to her paperwork. Rupert did likewise and Joseph watched the road.

The journey ended in silence.


	11. Chapter 11

"The Managing Director insisted that I speak with you today, Your Majesty," Mabrey said by way of explanation for his unscheduled appearance at the palace. He glanced over his shoulder at the office door which was closing behind the departing Queen. Mabrey's expression was vaguely triumphant as he watched her leave.

_Clarisse had been going over a report with her husband when the secretary announced Mabrey's arrival. "Well, I don't suppose we should keep the poor chap waiting," Rupert said while closing the folder of papers Clarisse had been discussing with him. She drew her hand back from the paperwork and favored him with a glare. _

"_Perhaps it could wait until we've finished this report, Rupert," she said rather icily._

"_I'm afraid not, my dear. Why don't you just take a stroll around the garden for a bit and I'll call you when we're through here." Rupert's tone was jovial, but Clarisse could read the brush off she was getting from him in both his words and body language. _

_Rupert noticed her posture stiffen as the Viscount was shown into the room. She acknowledged his bow with the merest inclination of her head. _

_Clarisse didn't speak, but merely gathered her paperwork and headed towards the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, about to say something else, when her gaze met Mabrey's. As much as she would've liked to take a parting shot at her husband, she refused to give the Viscount the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was. She merely smiled, opened the door and left. _

Mabrey was practically preening after the door shut behind the Queen. Rupert's voice was harder than usual when he said, "What do you want, Arthur?"

"It's not me, Your Majesty. I would never dream of making demands on your time. But the Managing Director insists that you respond to his request as soon as possible."

Rupert recognized the pseudonym the head of the San Cayetano cartel preferred. "And that is?" Rupert's eyes narrowed.

"The San Cayetano needs your help in solving a problem." Mabrey took a deep breath and plastered a smile on his lips. "They can't get the plans for the new casino approved by the government of Monrovia. One minister in particular, Lord Martin Haversmith, is standing in their way."

"What's the problem?"

"Two fold. He owns the land we need and refuses to sell. More importantly, he is the Minister of Justice for Monrovia and he's starting an investigation into the San Cayetano business practices. He's on some kind of a witch hunt. The Director has been more than patient, but Haversmith is out to get us."

"Spare me, Arthur. I'm sure this is not the first time the consortium has encountered such problems. Let them handle it however they normally do. This hardly sounds important enough for me to become involved."

"It is important, Your Majesty. The normal procedures for dealing with a problem like this have been tried and failed. Evidently Haversmith is not interested in the normal monetary inducements and they haven't uncovered anything that would be of use in trying to…persuade him to cooperate. He's something of a crusader. If he gets his teeth into this, he will be a master of media manipulation. Names will be leaked to the media and he will make a great show of bringing down as many very important people as he can. Even you would be in danger, Your Majesty."

"How so? You are my go-between. There is no official connection between the cartel and I." Rupert's voice was hard and his tone accusatory.

"Yes, but the cartel, of course, knows I'm working for you. And if Haversmith started causing trouble, I don't think they would hesitate to throw you to the wolves – if they had to," Mabrey smirked.

"You're saying the cartel is threatening to turn me over to Lord Haversmith's investigation?" Rupert's voice rose slightly and anger flashed in his eyes.

"Not in so many words, but, well, yes."

Rupert glared across the desk at the Viscount. After a long, tense, moment, he got to his feet and began to pace. The not-so-veiled threats that Mabrey was delivering would not have bothered the King, had it not been for Haversmith's recent visit to his wife. It was all too close to home. This was exactly the involvement he'd hoped to avoid. It was to that end that he'd involved the Viscount as a go-between. The less he knew about the shady side of the business, the better. If he gave in and helped them to deal with this problem, he would be more deeply involved than he'd ever intended. They would have him in their control from now on. Where would it end?

On the other hand, if no one stopped Lord Haversmith, all was lost. His reign was secure, but there was no guarantee what would happen if his connections to a group that was little more than an organized crime operation came to light. It was conceivable that he could be forced to step down, hopefully in favor of his son and not someone else outside the immediate line of succession.

There was really no choice.

"Contact the director, Arthur. Ask what they need me to do." His back was to the Viscount and he stared out the window, unseeingly surveying the manicured land stretching out before him.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the Viscount agreed quietly. He received no response. After waiting in silence to be dismissed, the Viscount finally stood and left the office. Rupert didn't seem to hear him go. He paid no attention. He was trying to deal with the surprising weight that had settled into his gut. That weight was the knowledge that he had sold his soul for a few pieces of silver.

_____________________________________________________________________

Clarisse stalked back to her office, following Rupert's all but curt dismissal of her. Like her husband, she walked over to the windows and surveyed the landscape, watching the gardeners go about their work on the grounds below. A knock sounded at the door. Her voice sounded distracted as she granted permission for entry.

Joseph walked silently across the room to stand at a window next to hers. For several moments he simply stood and watched her, noting how Clarisse twisted and turned her wedding ring. The huge stone in the center of the intricate setting refracted the light in sharp flashes. Finally he spoke.

"Sending coded signals Your Majesty? I must say I object to any sort of clandestine communication with someone outside of the palace unless they have passed a security check."

"What? What are you talking about?" she asked, startled by his voice. She had quite forgotten he was there.

"Your ring. I've always wondered why you fidget with it so much. Now I understand you must be using it to send flashes of Morse code or something."

She smiled vaguely and looked down at her hand. The ring flashed again in the sunlight. "It is terribly ostentatious, isn't it?"

"Horribly so," Joseph answered in mock seriousness. Clarisse smiled for real then. "It belonged to Rupert's grandmother. He told me he was having it reset for my wedding ring. I was hoping for something a bit more understated and simple than this. I hadn't realized I constantly 'fidget' with it."

Joseph stepped closer and took her hand, ostensibly studying the ring. "Well, it is a beautiful stone."

She gave him an amused look and said "But not what you would give your wife?"

He chuckled. "No. Not even if I could afford it. _Especially_ not if I could afford it!"

She laughed then. "So, tell me. What would your wife's ring look like?"

Joseph thought a moment. He still held her hand, his fingers now toying with her ring. "Hmm. I suppose it would be pretty much what you described – understated and simple. A perfect stone in a perfect solitaire setting. Elegant. Beautiful. Just like her."

"That sounds perfectly lovely," she said as she withdrew her hand from his. "I hope you find a woman fitting of a ring like that."

Joseph met her eyes. "Thank you, Your Majesty." He held her gaze for a long moment, until she smiled knowingly and looked away. He glanced at his watch. "The car is waiting at the side entrance. You've got less than half an hour before your meeting. We should leave now."

She nodded and gathered a few papers from her desk, depositing them with Charlotte as she passed through the outer office on her way down stairs. Joseph picked up her briefcase and followed a few steps behind.

_____________________________________________________________________

The Queen's birthday was not normally an occasion of large celebration. Not through any sort of slight, but because that's how she preferred it. Instead of a lavish ball she preferred a smaller, more intimate gathering. What she would have most preferred was a private dinner with family and a few close friends, but that would never do for the King. He insisted on some kind of a public celebration, normally using the occasion to assuage any guilt he felt about their relationship by catering to her whims and lavishing public praise on her.

So, as the sun began to set on this birth day, the first in a sting of limousines and private cars began its slow approach to the front steps of the palace. Guests were announced with the usual fanfare and a dance orchestra tuned its instruments in a corner of one of the smaller ballrooms. The curtailed guest list was made up of members of parliament and their families, a few of Genovia's business and industry leaders, one or two diplomatic guests and extended members of the royal family.

Joseph had helped Robert screen the guests while the Queen was dressing in her suite. Just as he waved through the a group of parlimentarians, including Viscount Mabrey, another guest arrived who was not on the approved list. She was a tall, elegantly dressed brunette with smoldering dark eyes. Joseph had never seen her before. Just as he was about to deny her entrance, Robert caught his attention.

He motioned Joseph over and quietly explained that Lauren Chastain had been a last minute addition. At the King's request. Her name was not on any of the guest lists, but his Majesty had personally vouched for her. Joseph raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He allowed Ms. Chastain into the ballroom just as the earpiece Joseph was wearing informed him the Queen was ready for her entrance with the King. Robert and Joseph turned the remaining guests over to their replacements, and hurried to the private wing to escort their charges to the ballroom.

Robert took his leave of Joseph at the top of the stairs and headed for the King's suite. Joseph turned the opposite direction and positioned himself outside the Queen's door. He could hear her ladies maids fussing inside.

"Thank you, ladies, but I don't think there is anything else to be done. I am not wearing a tiara tonight and there is no reason to do anything outlandish to my hair." The door opened and Clarisse smiled as he saw Joseph standing there. "Good night ladies. I shan't need you again tonight. I will see you in the morning," she said back over her shoulder. She held her hand out to Joseph. "How are you, this evening?" she asked.

"I am...enthralled, I think."

"You think?" she laughed.

"I'm sure. You look exquisite, Your Majesty." Joseph bowed low over her hand, then pressed a kiss to her fingers.

"Thank you, Joseph. I admit I much prefer an evening dress to a ball gown."

"I don't know about that, Your Majesty, but I do know that you look stunning." Try as he might, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her body. This evening she had chosen a simple black dress. It was cut low in the front and covered with a red and black sequined bolero jacket. The front of the skirt stopped above her knees but dipped lower in the back. Bits of silver thread were woven into the material and sparkled in the light as she moved. The dress was simple and elegant yet almost wantonly sensual. Especially when paired with her legs.

Finally managing to wrench his eyes back to her face, he swallowed hard. Clarisse's smile broadened at his reaction. Joseph returned her smile rather sheepishly and offered her his arm for the short walk to meet the King.

She beamed at Joseph and released her hold on his arm as they approached the top of the stairs. Robert was already there, standing just behind King Rupert.

Rupert extended his arm to his wife, his eyes possessively surveying her figure. "Very nice, my dear. I'm sure all eyes will be on you this evening."

"Thank you," she demurred as Rupert kissed her hand. Joseph could see the smile that lit up her eyes at the compliment from her husband. Jealously flared briefly in the deepest part of his mind, but he quickly stifled it. He had no right to such feelings, he reminded himself.

Joseph fell into step beside Robert as the monarchs descended the stairs to the ballroom. Following their entrance, the King took a glass of champagne and signaled for quiet.

He smiled brilliantly at the assemblage. "First of all, on behalf of her Majesty, I would like to thank each of you for being here this evening. There is no better way to celebrate a birthday than with good food, good drink and good people." He raised his glass to the crowd. Then he turned towards Clarisse, who stood smiling at his side. "Secondly, I would like to wish my lovely wife a most joyous birthday. You deserve it, my darling," he said as he leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on Clarisse's cheek. Then he turned and addressed the guests once more, lifting his glass high. "To her Majesty, Queen Clarisse!"

Clarisse accepted the toast with a short speech thanking the guests and expressing hope that they would all enjoy the celebration as much as she. Then the music began to play.

Joseph took his post on the sidelines, normally standing against a wall or a pillar until he had to move around the room to keep his charge in view. This evening's orchestra was a Portuguese dance band that was on a European tour. The Queen had requested them specially after hearing them play at the Genovian embassy in Italy the month before. Their music was a bit faster than the usual palace ballroom score and there was a definite Latin influence present in whatever they played.

Joseph enjoyed the music as he kept his eyes on the Queen. He noticed several of Her Majesty's dance partners leaving the floor with reddened faces and heightened thirst. The older parliamentarians were no doubt especially eager to dance with their beautiful Queen this night, but the less than sedate music and her energetic steps proved a bit much for the old men.

Several dances into the evening, the Queen took a break from gliding around the floor and stood chatting with her husband and a few guests. Joseph watched for the waiter he knew was carrying a tray of white wine. Her Majesty had never been particularly fond of champagne and substituted wine whenever she could. Within moments the waiter slid noiselessly up next to the Queen and she smiled her thanks as she took a flute of the golden liquid.

Joseph turned his attention back to the crowd. He scanned the room, noting nothing out of the ordinary. His eyes returned to the Queen. Clarisse was speaking to Lord and Lady Palimore and, as Joseph watched, Viscount Mabrey sidled up to the King, drink in hand. When Clarisse turned to say something to Rupert, her regal mask never faltered, but a close observer would have noticed the flicker of distaste in her eyes at the sight of the Viscount.

Joseph was a close observer.

His eyes on the Queen, Mabrey address the King. "Her Majesty looks especially…enticing this evening," he remarked drily.

Rupert seemed to miss the inflection of the man's words, but something in the tone set Joseph's teeth on edge. "She is lovely, isn't she?" Rupert said with a huge smile. He reached out and ran his hand down Clarisse's arm. "Elegant as always, but tonight she has favored us with a slightly more fetching costume than usual."

Neither man seemed to notice that the Queen made no reply. Her features were frozen into an inexpressive mask as she took another sip of wine. Joseph noticed, however. The other two were discussing her much as they would a show animal or a race horse. And right in front of her.

Rupert finally addressed Clarisse directly. "This orchestra is a bit different, isn't it my dear?"

"I requested them. They are one of the best tango ensembles in Europe," she explained.

"Ah, yes, the tango." Rupert chuckled. He looked over to Mabrey again. "The one unrequited desire of our Queen is that the King has no talent for that particular dance. Clarisse does it marvelously," he said as he took her hand and brought it up to his lips. "I enjoy watching you dance it, Darling."

Clarisse gave him a wan smile and started to move away towards her other guests. Rupert held her hand a moment longer. "Wait," he said and turned back behind them. "Joseph."

He stepped forward immediately. "Yes sir?"

"You can dance the tango, can't you?"

"I _am_ Spanish, your Majesty," he answered with a bit of a smirk.

The King laughed. "Please, oblige my wife, as well as the rest of us, by dancing the tango with her. She needs a partner."

Joseph's mouth went dry. Did the King realize what he was asking? He cleared his throat nervously as he glanced at the Queen. The obvious curiosity in her eyes was his undoing. "I'd be honored, provided her Majesty agrees."

"Her Majesty would be honored as well," Clarisse said, smiling broadly. Rupert kissed her hand once more then handed her over to Joseph. Someone notified the orchestra and as the two of them stepped to the middle of the dance floor the music suddenly changed.

Clarisse's gaze was demurely downcast as she stepped into the stiff frame of Joseph's arms. They moved tentatively together. He led her in a series of intricate steps across the middle of the floor. They moved proficiently together, but not fluidly.

Just as Clarisse turned her head to glance across the room, presumably at the King, Joseph leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "The tango cannot be performed at arm's length."

He felt his heart sink as Clarisse missed a step and her body stiffened in his arms even more…


	12. Chapter 12

Clarisse missed a step.

It was at that moment that Lauren Chastain came up behind the King and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "The Managing Director has requested that we speak privately, Your Majesty. He is most insistent that you hear the message he has sent with me."

Rupert looked at her rather sharply, biting back the curses he would like to make. He knew he would comply, but the King of Genovia was not a man accustomed to being ordered around, regardless of how lovely the emissary or how subtle the demand. He stood up and took her hand before leaning in close to her ear to whisper his reply. "You have 15 minutes. We'll speak in my library."

As he pulled away and placed a hand on her back to direct the way, he glanced out onto the dance floor. His eyes were drawn to Clarisse. She was staring at the woman as she swayed across the dance floor, then her eyes met his. He saw a brief flash of hurt, then her gaze went cold. Cold and angry.

Suddenly Rupert was angry too. How dare she judge him without even knowing what was going on? If he was going to be accused of all manner of sins, he may as well commit a few of them and get it over with. He jerked his head back towards Lauren and followed her from the ballroom. Once outside the doors, he took her elbow and led her to his suite.

Rupert's library was large and leathery – the books, the sofas, even the wallpaper. The smell of expensive cigars hung lightly in the air. Lauren looked around appreciatively, soaking up the essence of the room and the man it mirrored.

Rupert was impatient. "What do you have to say?" he asked, drawing her attention away from a shelf of hunting and polo trophies.

"This is the second time the Managing Director has contacted you regarding a particular task. He does not often repeat himself. Only his appreciation for your position allowed him to make an exception in your case." Lauren's voice took on the cold tone of a recitation.

"What request would that be?" he asked, although he was fully aware of what she was talking about.

"Viscount Mabry delivered a message to you weeks ago regarding Lord Haversmith. He must be removed. His influence is growing and his meddling is affecting our business. Yet you have done nothing about it."

"I told Mabry I would think about it and see what could be done. I am still assessing the situation." Rupert crossed his arms and glared at her. She didn't flinch, but met his steely gaze.

"You haven't taken any action. The consortium is not pleased. I am here to deliver your instructions. Failure to follow them to the letter will result in reprisals." She took a step closer and lowered her voice. "You cannot afford to defy the consortium. Not even a king can do that, Your Majesty. Not if you value your wealth, your power or your family."

Keeping his voice lowered so as not to alert the guards outside, Rupert lashed out at her. "How dare you? How dare you threaten me or my family! I will not be bullied by the likes of you or anyone else. You can tell your managing director that --!"

She interrupted him with a smile. "How did you wife react to the photo she received in the mail? She's a lovely woman, but I would imagine the wrath of a queen knows no bounds. And the other photos you received? Child's play, Your Majesty, nothing more. If you defy the consortium, you will be dealt with very harshly indeed."

Rupert's eyes narrowed considerably. How he would've like to wipe the smile off her face with his fist. He'd never even considered hitting a woman before, but never had he been in such a position, either.

"You have your annual shooting party at your country estate next weekend, I believe," she said, as if she were about to make suggestions to the menu. "Your job is to make sure Haversmith is there. A hunting accident is by far the easiest way. I'll speak with the Viscount concerning the details. We certainly appreciate your cooperation." She smiled again and held out a hand which the King stonily ignored. Her smile broadened and she left the room.

Rupert gave a heavy sigh and slumped down into one of the deep armchairs, staring unseeingly at the pattern in the carpet.

___________________________________________________

"The Tango cannot be performed at arm's length."

He felt his heart sink as Clarisse missed a step and her body stiffened in his arms even more. Joseph's step faltered just a bit as well, until he realized she hadn't heard him. She was staring at the King as he exited the ballroom with the brunette whom he'd specially cleared to attend this gathering. Joseph realized now why his partner was upset.

He took a deep breath and tightened his grip slightly. The move drew her eyes back to him. "Would you rather step outside for some fresh air, Your Majesty?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "No. I want to dance, Joseph," she said firmly. With that she stepped in close, head high and eyes defiant. "Shall we?" she challenged.

Joseph couldn't help but grin. He pulled her willingly into his embrace and began to lead her. Their bodies shifted and turned as the music pulled them across the floor. The Queen pressed her body against his almost scandalously as they danced their way through the steps and turns of the tango.

Joseph rolled her out to arm's length, connected to her only at the fingertips. Then he pulled her back in closer and closer until her body coupled with his from chest to hip.

Clarisse was angry and suddenly didn't care about anyone else in the room. She danced with a wild abandon that was at odds with the normally sedate ballroom dancing the crowd was used to. Joseph met each challenge she presented him with strength and control. He locked his gaze onto hers. No words were necessary; each move was communicated through touch.

Heat ignited between them, both as a result of the physical exertion as well as the tension the dance was building in their bodies. Clarisse tore her stare from him, lowering her eyes demurely to the floor as they extended as far from each other as possible without losing contact. Once again he spun her back into his body and she was powerless to keep from meeting his eyes anew. The warmth that she saw there was comforting, but she saw something else there that almost frightened her. She'd never realized how powerful her bodyguard was before. With a mere flick of his wrist he could send her away or draw her close. He could lift her completely off the floor and twirl her around apparently effortlessly. His body was so controlled, so compact, yet so profoundly graceful. Clarisse felt an almost irresistible urge to run her hands over him, to touch him and test the contours of those muscles for herself.

Perhaps this dance hadn't been such a good idea.

Joseph smiled. He could almost read her thoughts in her eyes. Stepping between her legs, he drove her across the floor, then pulled her back. The Queen moved so fluidly and followed his lead so well, he felt as if they'd danced like this every night for a year. She was so supple, her movements so sinuous that he couldn't bear to have her body separated from his even by the length of an arm. Even as he spun her away, he was already pulling her back.

The beat of the music carried the couple around and around the dance floor. The other guests, who had paid only polite notice at first, now watched with rapt attention. The dance floor had slowly emptied as the crowd's attention was drawn to the spectacle before them.

As the last stains of the music died away, the Queen and her guard stood in the middle of the ballroom – breathing heavily, bodies fused together. There was only silence for a long moment, then a smattering of applause started at the back of the room. Within seconds, the majority of the crowd had joined in and the noise broke the Queen from her desperate contemplation of Joseph's eyes and his slightly open, highly inviting mouth.

She took a step back, almost gasping aloud at the loss of contact. Recovering his senses as well, Joseph made a low formal bow before taking her fingers in his own once more and lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled and inclined her head towards him, then allowed him to lead her off the floor.

Clarisse took a drink from the tray of the closest waiter as Joseph made his way back to a post on the wall, fading into the background. The Queen was immediately surrounded by a group of well-wishers and the curious. The ballroom buzzed with gossip. Most comments that Joseph overheard were positive. A few of the women regarded Clarisse with ill-disguised sneers. Some of the men leered at her, ogling the Queen while playing out fantasies in their minds.

Joseph was surprised to find himself the subject of attention far more than usual for the rest of the evening. Several of the revelers offered him congratulations on his dancing. Lord Fricker asked him for lessons and one woman pressed a phone number into his hand as she passed him on her way to the bar.

Joseph kept his vigil throughout the evening. For once his charge watched him almost as much as he watched her. There was something in her expression – a ghost of a smile or a softening in her gaze – that made his hear beat faster each time her eyes sought out his from across the room.

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Hours later, after the King had returned to the ball, after the cake had been cut, after the last strains of dance music died away, Joseph had discreetly followed Clarisse as she left the ballroom. He had seen how she worked at maintaining her façade of gracious hostess throughout the evening. Rupert had not returned to the ball for over an hour after leaving with the brunette and had been distant and remote for the rest of the evening. When the guests began to leave, he approached Clarisse only long enough to mutter something about a headache before he slipped from the ballroom and headed down the corridors towards his suite.

After the last of the guests had departed, unconvincing excuses for the King's absence hanging in the air, the Queen made her solitary way through the quieting hallways towards her own rooms. Following along behind, Joseph felt sure Clarisse was more upset than she'd appeared while in the ballroom. She wasn't sobbing, she wasn't even crying. But her normally confident, purposeful gait seemed hesitant and unsure. Halfway up the main stairs she'd stopped on the landing and looked down at the palace's grand entrance. Running a hand through her hair, she breathed a heavy sigh. Joseph's heart ached at the sound.

She climbed the remaining stairs and now the marble-floored hallway echoed her quickening steps as she neared her destination. A half-open oak door marked the entrance she sought. She slipped easily through the opening. Joseph stood for a moment in the hallway, listening for any sound. When he heard the sigh again, he pushed open the door, letting it scuff a little across the deep carpet so that she heard him there. Clarisse didn't turn around, instead stood facing the fire place, gazing at the cold hearth.

Joseph ventured a few steps into the darkened library. It wasn't a private space, but neither was it public, hidden away on a corridor between her grand suite and the lesser suites of some of the senior staff, himself included. The Queen had claimed it in the last few years, occasionally rotating out some of the old volumes and replacing them with her favorites. The formal portrait of her mother-in-law, Queen Helena, had at some point been quietly replaced by a huge and vibrant forest landscape by a German artist.

Joseph found the picture to be especially revealing of its owner. Unlike the usual classical oils and watercolors that covered the walls in the rest of the palace, this scene was like something from a fantasy movie – lush, verdant wood, opening to reveal a flowered meadow, fittingly appointed for some sort of fairy tale encounter. Like those between Queens and Knights of kingdoms past.

Clarisse had turned to face him in the moment that he let his eyes stray to the painting. When he looked back at her she did not try to hide the pain in her expression. Joseph felt a tightening in his chest at the sight. Neither spoke for a long moment.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he finally said. She was silent a heartbeat longer.

"You've never intruded upon me, Joseph," she replied. Her voice had a husky quality that was no doubt due to the unshed tears behind her eyes.

Joseph merely nodded. He had automatically reverted to his 'at ease' stance – feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped in front. He simply looked at her, taking an inventory of her appearance from head to toe.

Clarisse felt herself loosen under his frank appraisal. Some of the tension released in her shoulders and she felt the need to lean back against the wall, finding support for her rubbery legs. How did this happen? She was at once both nervous and relaxed in his presence.

Able to read in her eyes everything that was going on in her head, Joseph took a confident step forward and reached out for his friend. Clarisse responded without even a thought and immediately was both lost and found in Joseph's embrace.

"I'm so sorry. I know this evening wasn't much of a celebration for you." His words were tinged with gruffness that covered a deep affection. He simply held her close, wrapping her with warmth and security.

Clarisse could feel the words being formed by the air in his chest as he spoke. His heartbeat sounded loud in her ear. She inhaled deeply then sank even further into his support as she exhaled. When she finally spoke, no one was more surprised than she by what she said.

"Make love to me, Joseph."

He froze. There was no reply.

Clarisse pulled away a bit to look up at him. She repeated her request.

There was no verbal reply, but she felt his arms stiffen around her and his eyes closed as if in frustration. Clarisse pulled away completely then, turning her back as soon as she was free of his arms. She'd never felt so foolish before in her life. She wished for the floor to open up beneath her and swallow her.

"I don't know why I said that. It was unconscionable. Please forgive me." She was almost babbling. "Please go, Joseph. Just leave me alone. I'm not myself." Now she was desperate for him to leave. The tears were straining against her defenses, but she didn't want the further embarrassment of letting him see her cry. "You couldn't possibly want -- I'm such a fool! Please, just leave!"

His hands gripped her shoulders tightly and swung her around with surprising force. Before she could react, his lips covered hers and he pulled her body into him. Joseph kissed her hungrily. The assault on her lips was forceful – almost violent. Her knees buckled as he bent over her, forcing her body to align itself along his. His arms supported her weight easily as she all but bent over backwards.

Finally her mind caught up with her body and she began to respond, kissing him back with wild abandon. After several heady moments, he broke the kiss and sat her back up on her feet.

He took a step back from her and smoothed the front of his shirt and tugged any wrinkles out of the front of his jacket. He stared at the floor and took a deep breath. When he looked up, Clarisse was staring at him, one hand covering her slightly open mouth. Her eyes were confused, surprise and desire fought for dominance in her expression. She obviously had no idea what to do or say next.

Joseph pulled his body back into the security stance and grinned at her.

"I want nothing more than to make love to you, Clarisse Renaldi," he said. A small, incoherent noise escaped her throat. "If it were only up to me, I would take you here and now and ravish your luscious body right here on the library floor. Then I would pick you up in my arms and carry you back to my room where we would lie together, bodies tangled in the sheets and make love until dawn." He drew a breath and stared deeply into her startled eyes. "That is what I would do, if it were up to me."

"J-Joseph?" she gasped. She tried to speak, but still had no idea what to say. His eyes gleamed at her with roguish confidence and she could feel desire pooling deep within the core of her body.

Joseph could see the conflicting emotions she was fighting. He knew he'd never have this chance again and his heart broke at the knowledge that he could not take advantage of it. But he'd be damned if she left this room thinking it was because she was somehow undesirable. Never breaking his stance and never taking his eyes from hers, he continued. "I would kiss every inch of your skin. You would invade all of my senses. I would lay my head against your chest and hear the thunder of your heartbeat. I would smell your glorious perfume mingled with the sweet scent of our bodies coming together. My hands would relish the feel of the smooth silk of your skin. I can only imagine what your body would feel like. I wouldn't be able to close my eyes – I would need to see you, to look at you. You are a feast for my senses, Clarisse. If only…" His voice trailed off and there was a bit of a hitch in his own breathing now.

"If only?" she whispered.

"If only."

The silence dragged out between them. Both studied the floor that separated them. Finally Clarisse drew herself up straighter. Her persona of control slowly re-exerted itself. Joseph's eyes traveled slowly up her body as the transformation took place. By the time he reached her face, she was smiling.

"Thank you, Joseph," she said with a slightly formal tone. "You certainly have a – a talent for making me feel better." Her laugh was almost natural. But not quite.

Joseph crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I don't care if you feel better or nor." His voice stopped just short of being cold.

"Excuse me?" she said, obviously surprised by this reaction.

"Everything I said was true. You asked something of me. Every fiber of my being wants to fulfill that request." He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "You didn't meant it. We both know that. Regardless, there are too many other people involved. A couple million people in fact. And I know that you would never betray them by betraying your king. No matter how much he deserves it." The last sentence took on the tone of a small boy who'd just discovered the cookie jar was empty. Clarisse couldn't help but laugh. She was thankful for the emotional release and a few tears escaped to accompany her laugh.

Joseph smiled warmly and reached out to wipe the tears away. As he did, he leaned forward and whispered into her ear. "I just couldn't let you think that I would turn you down because I didn't want you." Clarisse shuddered and he noted her reaction with no little satisfaction. "I want you like I've never wanted anyone else in the world, Clarisse. You are the woman of my dreams. The woman in my dreams."

His lips brushed against her cheek, then he turned on his heel and left.

She smiled softly as she watched him go. When the latch on the door clicked into place behind him, she spoke. "I did mean it, Joseph. With all my heart." She watched the door for a moment longer before turning away.

A book lay on the table next to one of the arm chairs. After turning on the reading lamp, Clarisse settled into the chair with the novel. Before even opening the pages, she found herself staring at the door again. Without really meaning to, Clarisse replaced the book on the table and started towards the door. Her resolve strengthened with each step and when she reached out to the door knob she whipped it opened and rushed across the threshold.

Right into someone's arms.

"Happy Birthday, Mother!"

"P-Pierre! You!" Clarisse stammered. "You scared me to death," she laughed. She stepped back and smiled up at her son.

Pierre grinned down at her. "I'm sorry I'm late. My plane was delayed. Feel like coming down to the kitchen for another piece of cake?"

The significance of Clarisse's rueful smile was lost on her son. She took a deep breath, slipped her arm through his and said, "But of course, Darling! There's nothing I'd rather do."

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The night of the Queen's birthday was one of the longest in recent memory for Genovia's royal couple. Clarisse knew her husband had no desire to come to her that evening and she spent hours alone in the dark, dreaming of another man. Rupert spent a night, also alone in the dark, trying to drink away the knowledge that he had fallen into a trap from which he had no escape.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thanks to all of you for the reviews! They make my day. I'm glad I was able to post this bit before leaving for Easter holiday. Sorry for the delay on posting. Hope you enjoy! (Sort of interesting that _this _chapter turned out to be number 13...)**

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Since he was one of the few people in the palace who slept well the night before, Joseph was up early and headed straight for the security office. There was something there he had to take care of. Robert was sitting at the desk when he entered, but otherwise the office was deserted.

"Took a late shift?" Joseph asked casually.

"I couldn't sleep. So, I took over for Mike. He's relieving me this morning."

"I see." Joseph smiled and gestured towards the room to the wall of monitors and equipment. "I was just going to check on some of the recordings. Why don't you take off and grab some breakfast and go to bed? I'll wait for Mike. You must be exhausted."

Robert's smile betrayed his tiredness. He reached out for a tape that was sitting on the side of the desk. "I think this is what you're looking for," he said quietly.

"Is it?"

"Yes." Robert reached into the edge of the cassette and pulled the tape out of it, crumpling it in his hand as he went. Neither man spoke for a long moment. Finally Robert looked up at Joseph. "Don't do this Joe. You're my friend, and I don't want to see you throw you career away like this. This may be the 20th century, but you know if the King saw that tape, he could still have you hanged. It's not worth it."

Joseph signed. "I know. I'm glad you were the one on duty last night. I was hoping that Mike would be too distracted by everything else that was happening with the guests leaving and securing the grounds to notice anything going on in Her Majesty's library. Don't worry. I'm not going to jeopardize Her Majesty's integrity. I care about her too much for that."

Robert's eyes searched Joseph's face, weighting the truth of what he said. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, he nodded and handed Joseph the destroyed tape. Joseph took the remains and tossed it into the trash and turned to leave. As he made his way to the door, he paused and looked back at Robert. "You're wrong about one thin, though."

"What's that?" Robert asked, brows furrowed.

"If the only consequence was facing the hangman, she would be completely worth it." A huge grin broke over Joseph's serious features.

Robert couldn't help but laugh. "Her Majesty deserves someone like you Joe. She really does. It's too bad…" He let his voice trail away, then cleared his throat. "You know…there are still some spots on the grounds that the cameras don't cover. We just never seem to have the time to do anything about that. The interior of the lake house, for instance. Not a single camera…" Robert grinned slyly.

Joseph laughed aloud. "Don't tempt me, old man!" He opened the door and stepped through. "Thank you, Robert," he said, his voice more serious. "I appreciate…well, everything."

Robert met his gaze and nodded. "Don't let us down, Joe. Any of us."

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The food would be exquisite, as always, but Rupert could not muster up an appetite. Not even a full day's sport was enough to work up an appetite. The week between the Queen's Birthday Ball and his hunting party had been one of little food and even less sleep for the King. Last night, he'd approached Lord Haversmith one last time about the possibility of doing business with the San Cayetano Cartel. Haversmith reiterated his refusal, citing the ethical concerns he had with the monopolistic and strong arm business practices of the group. He refused to sell his land and he refused to withdraw his investigation. Not even the charm and persuasion of Rupert Renaldi was enough to get him to change his mind.

Just before dinner this evening, Rupert had called the Managing Director of the cartel on the line in his private study. He stared at the buttons of the phone as he waited for the call to connect.

There were no pleasantries. The Director came straight to the point. "Has Haversmith relented?"

"He's perhaps softened, but his position remains essentially the same," Rupert said. "I think with more time, perhaps I can get through to him."

"No more time," came the clipped reply. "We've wasted enough on this already. He will be dealt with tomorrow. What are the plans for your guests tomorrow?"

"We'll have brunch on the lawn, followed by skeet shooting and then a hunting trip into the woods in the afternoon. But what..?"

"Perfect. Make sure you are paired with Haversmith while hunting tomorrow, keep and eye on him, but don't get too close. Make sure no one else accompanies you."

"What are you planning to do? You can't mean – "

"Don't ask questions," the Director interrupted harshly. "The less you know, the more believable you will be." The connection was terminated.

Rupert was shaking. He knew what was going to happen, yet his mind still tried to deny it. He stood up and paced the room for a few moments before grabbing the phone again and placing a call to Arthur Mabrey's cell phone. The line was busy.

The butler appeared and announced dinner. Rupert nodded absently and replaced the handset. Before he left the room, he reached for a crystal decanter on the corner of his desk and emptied the dregs of whiskey into a glass. He downed it in a single gulp.

At dinner Rupert merely toyed with his food. He'd seemingly lost the ability to converse and his guests finally left him out of the discussions all together. Haversmith caught him staring in his direction more than once during the evening. When they finally adjourned to the lounge for cigars and brandy, Rupert pulled Mabrey away from the others and into a secluded corner.

"I can't get Haversmith to turn," he said. "I spoke to the Director. Something is planned for tomorrow during our hunt."

"I know," Mabrey hissed. "I got a call from him after he spoke to you. I have a job to do tomorrow. I won't see you during the hunt." His gaze locked on the King's. "And you won't see me," he said slowly. "Understand?"

Rupert somehow made it through the rest of the evening in an alcohol induced haze. He drank, he smoked and he paced. He didn't even acknowledge the flirtatious maid who seemed intent on pursuing him now that he was outside the palace and the reach of his wife.

The King's self-absorbed reverie was interrupted by his son's voice. "What's the matter, Father? You look like a wreck and I've never seen you so tense." Rupert looked up at his son, who was at that moment glaring at the parlor maid who was trying to catch the King's eye as she served drinks to the guests. When Pierre turned back towards his father, he appeared to be genuinely concerned. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"I'm fine, Pierre. Just a little worried over a trade negotiation. I was hoping this weekend would give me to opportunity to make some headway with the deal, but so far that hasn't happened." Rupert took a sizable gulp of his drink.

"Who are you negotiating with? Perhaps I could help?" Pierre asked.

"No, it's nothing for you to worry about, son. Just enjoy the party. Mingle. Make some contacts." Rupert started to turn away.

"Dammit, Father!" Pierre hissed through clenched teeth. "I have mingled until I'm numb. Give me something useful to do! Let me help!"

"I appreciate your offer," Rupert replied stiffly, "but you aren't involved in this – there is no way you can help."

Pierre regarded his father for a long moment as Rupert finished another drink. He opened his mouth to retort, but at that moment the King swayed slightly, even as he signaled a waiter for another drink. Pierre placed the remains of his own drink on the waiter's tray and walked away.

Rupert didn't notice his son's departure. He was busy trying to convince himself that this wasn't really going to happen. Lord Haversmith was not about to be killed. Civilized people simply didn't behave that way. And Arthur was certainly not the type to do it.

Except that Arthur was exactly the type to do so. He'd all but offered to kill Clarisse one evening when Rupert was complaining about the lack of concordance in their marriage. Mabrey was an avid hunter and a crack shot. Rupert knew this would be an almost irresistible challenge for the Viscount.

Rupert knew he should warn Haversmith – do whatever he could to save the man's life. But he was a realist as well. If Haversmith didn't meet his demise here and now, the cartel would get him somewhere else. And his death, in another place and another time, might not be so quick and painless.

Other thoughts crept into his consciousness as well. There were the photos. The one that had been sent to Clarisse was only the first. Several other times discrete envelopes had made their way into the King's hands; the contents anything but discrete. There was never a note and never a demand, but Rupert knew full well it was the Cartel's way of keeping him in line. They knew all his secrets. They could destroy him and destroy 500 years of Renaldi reign. The Renaldis had generally been a benevolent lot. Genovia prospered under their governance. Wasn't it worth the life of just one man in order to be able to continue that benevolent care of the citizenry of an entire country?

The next morning dawned weakly through a covering of high grey clouds. Heavy bags decorated the monarch's face and the lines around his eyes and mouth were dark and deep. After a few short hours of morning diversion, the group prepared to trek into the woods.

Haversmith approached Rupert, his gun slung casually over his shoulder. Dressed in hunting gear, his pudginess gave him the appearance of a cartoon character. "Mabrey tells me you and I are shooting together this afternoon, Your Majesty. I'm looking forward to it."

Rupert glanced wildly around for the Viscount, but didn't see him. "Yes, we're, uh, together," he said, stumbling slightly over the words. Haversmith favored him with a slightly inquisitive smile. He appeared to be about to say something, but thought better of it and turned away.

Still not seeing Mabrey, Rupert made his way over to the valet table and poured himself a drink. He downed it in a gulp, hoping the burning liquid would sear his core and take his mind off what was going on around him.

The hunting party was assembled and ready. Haversmith returned to the King's side and the hunt began. This time, the group was setting off on foot. Beaters fanned out ahead of them hoping to stir quail and pheasant from their hiding places.

Before long, the hunters spread wide, covering a large area of the woods and leaving each other fairly isolated. Rupert and his companion walked and talked in hushed tones. Haversmith talked about his plans for the future. He wanted to turn his family's land into a nature conservancy, which is why he refused, initially, to cooperate with the consortium. Haversmith also told Rupert about some of the double dealing and shady politics that have characterized the business practices of San Cayetano and serve at the impetus for his office's prosecutorial investigation into the holdings of the consortium.

The longer they walked and talked, the more the King came to understand that Haversmith was not a power-hungry demigod as he'd been characterized, but rather a principled gentleman who was trying to make his corner of the world a better place.

As they continued, Rupert knew he could not be a party to the cold blooded murder of this man. He had to stop it. It was wrong and whatever the consequences to himself, Rupert knew he couldn't live with Haversmith's blood on his hands. His hands began to shake. He felt sick. This can't happen.

"It seems that most of the birds have already left this area," Rupert said suddenly, interrupting the hunting story his companion had been telling. "Why don't we head back to the house and get an early start on some drinks? Besides, it's getting rather warm and I think I might rather be swimming than hunting, what do you say?"

"Capital idea," Haversmith grinned.

They turned back in the direction they'd come. Rupert continually scanned the area, hoping to see the Viscount and warn him off before anything happened. He wasn't any where to be seen. In fact, there was no one within view of them. His companion eyed him warily, not sure what to make of the sudden change in the King.

The blood began to pound in his ears and Rupert moved faster and faster through the forest, Haversmith panting slightly at his side. Then he heard the sound of twigs breaking behind them. He whirled towards the sound, Mabrey's name on his lips. His eyes were on the tree line behind them and he missed the tree root sticking out of the ground in his path. Just as he yelled for Mabrey to stop, he tripped and fell. It was then that the shot rang out and Haversmith dropped to the ground next to him.

Too little, too late.

The face lying on the ground next to his was frozen in an expression of shock and surprise. Rupert felt the bile rising in his throat. He stumbled to his feet, leaned against the nearest tree and was violently sick. Heavy footsteps were the only sound Rupert heard. Mabrey came up to survey his handy work.

"Got him," he said triumphantly as he rose to his feet from where he knelt to check for a pulse in his victim's neck. Mabrey didn't seem to notice his King's distress as he chuckled over his success. "Killing a man is a better rush than just firing on a few birds."

Rupert looked disgustedly at his friend, unable to believe the relish he heard in the other man's voice. "We shouldn't have done this," he said quietly.

"Of course we should! It was either him or us," Mabrey replied.

Rupert shook his head. "It's wrong. We're wrong."

Mabrey stared at the King, dumbfounded. Then he took a step closer and looked the taller man straight in the eye. "What's done is done. We can debate it all you want. But regardless of how you feel about it, we can't fix it. There's no need for your interference now. Don't throw away everything you have for something that can't be helped."

Rupert stared back, before lowering his eyes as well as his resolve. He stepped away and merely watched as Mabrey flipped open a cell phone and called for help.

Neither man saw the pale blue eyes, wide with shock, that observed them from afar.

Hearing his father shout, just as a shot sounded, Pierre had come across the scene just in time to see the two men bending over the body of a third. He heard the fatalism in his father's voice as he declared their actions wrong. Pierre wasn't sure what had happened or why, but he realized this was no hunting accident. Then he saw Rupert's face. He felt a cold dread settle into the pit of his stomach. Without thinking, Pierre turned and ran deeper into the wood. He wanted no part of this.

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The rest of the day passed by as if Rupert were standing still. The body was removed, the family notified. There were a few very perfunctory questions from the authorities, but no one doubted the word of the King or suspected anything other than a tragic accident had occurred. The palace press secretary issued a statement and Mabrey appeared on television looking positively contrite.

The rest of the weekend was cancelled in the interest of decorum. Rupert returned to the palace, barely speaking to his staff and ignoring his family. He locked himself in his study with a full decanter of fine whiskey and sat long into the night, staring unseeingly at the walls.

Clarisse was worried. She'd tried several times to speak to him, but he refused to talk. Her efforts to engage Pierre in conversation were unfruitful as well. Not long after returning, Pierre notified her he was going to Italy to stay with a friend for the next few days. She spoke with him briefly as he left. Pierre barely seemed to register what she said. His farewell was perfunctory at best and his mind was obviously on other things. Rupert made no move to come down to bid his son farewell, even after Clarisse had notified him that his son was leaving. Finally she left him to himself and, after checking in with the security team who were monitoring the king on the camera feed from the study, she gave up and went to bed.

Rupert drank long into the night, but failed to chase away the darkness that had found purchase in his mind. He knew his life had been irrevocably changed by the events of the day and he wasn't sure he could live with the person he'd become.


	14. Chapter 14

Clarisse sat across from her husband and regarded him thoughtfully as the plane lifted off Monrovian soil. The swiveling leather lounge chairs were comfortable in the extreme and the perks of the private plane also included a couple of leather sofas if one preferred. Regardless of the creature comforts, Rupert sat stiff and cramped in his seat. His face was turned to the window, but she could read the strain evident in his expression.

He'd been like this ever since the hunting accident. The funeral had been held that morning. The King and Queen had cleared their schedules and made arrangements to attend. Normally, the funeral of a lesser nobleman like Lord Haversmith would not result in attendance by one of the monarchs, much less both. But seeing that he died while partaking of the King's hospitality, Rupert felt it important that they both attend. Clarisse counted the man as a friend, and she made no complaint.

The service was well attended and Clarisse expected that they would make a brief appearance at the reception following. Rupert, however, seemed desperate to make a quick getaway. Clarisse managed to convince him that would be rude and they made their way through the receiving line, then mingled politely with the other mourners.

Clarisse found herself captivated by the Haversmith's twelve year old son, Harrison. He reminded Clarisse of her own sons, especially the more serious Pierre. She'd asked him of his plans for the future, and the bright eyed youngster immediately launched into a laundry list of his hopes and dreams. His eyes clouded over when the realization that his father would not be there to see any of the dreams realized hit home once again. Clarisse could hardly resist the urge to gather him up into her arms.

When Harrison finally moved on, Clarisse noticed Rupert watching the scene from just a few feet away. He appeared practically stricken. She moved to him and took him by the elbow, leaning in close. "Doesn't he remind you of the boys when they were that age," she said softly and pressed his arm companionably.

Rupert nodded curtly and looked away. "I think its best we leave now," he said when he turned back to her.

From that point on Rupert had spoken barely two words to his wife. He was withdrawn and obviously deeply concerned about something. Now, on the luxury jet, flying back to Genovia, Clarisse made another attempt to find out what was wrong.

She moved from her seat across the aisle and sat down in one of the chairs opposite the King. He didn't acknowledge her presence. She sat quietly for a few moments, then reached down to her crossed ankles and removed her shoes. As she raised her legs and put her feet on the seat next to her husband, she allowed herself to slouch down slightly into the soft leather.

It was only with Rupert that she would allow herself the luxury of casualness. It was one of the things that bound them together – they could be real with each other, not hidden behind a mask of monarchy.

"Rupert, darling, please talk to me. What is wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing, Clarisse. Just let me be." He didn't meet her gaze.

"This wasn't your fault, Rupert. You didn't kill the man. It's a tragedy, certainly, but I find your reaction to this a bit hard to understand." She paused and then put her feet down and moved to sit in the seat next to him. "Let me help. Tell me what you're feeling."

Rupert looked at her then, his lip curled into a small, sarcastic smile. "_You _want _me_ to talk about what I'm feeling? That's rather rich, coming from you." He laughed mirthlessly.

Clarisse pulled back, stung by his words.

"Talk to me," she pleaded again, after a few moments of silence.

"I have nothing to say, Clarisse. I'm sorry the man's dead. Bloody sorry. That's all there is to it." He wouldn't meet her eyes but she knew he was lying. It was written in every line of his face.

Clarisse sighed and reached down for her shoes. She slipped them back on her feet and moved away, back to her original seat. Now it was her turn to stare disconsolately out the window. This feeling of dread, of knowing things were not right, was not unfamiliar. It had been building for months. Rupert had been distancing himself from the day to day work of governance for a long time. The extra work wasn't the problem. Clarisse was no stranger to hard work. It was the fact that Rupert was so closed about what was going on. As she thought about it, she realized how angry she was with him. He'd slowly pushed her away, replacing not only his Queen but his Country with some nameless something that stole his time, his thoughts, his heart. She would have been jealous if she'd know what to be jealous of. But she had no idea.

But she could find out.

Determination set the fine features of her face into a mask of cool, calm power. She was going to find out. She stood up and crossed the aisle once more to face her husband. She stood motionless in front of him until he finally looked up at her.

"I'm tired of this, Rupert. I don't know what the problem is, or what has been claiming your time and attention for all these months, but it has to change." He started to speak but she held up a hand. "Don't lie to me again. I know you're lying and if you're not going to tell me the truth, then don't say anything." She reached out the hand she'd stopped him with and ran it down the side of his face. "I can see that something is eating you up inside. Tell me. Let me help you." Now she was kneeling next to him. He took hold of her hand and slowly brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes at the feel of her skin against his lips.

"I'm fine," he murmured. "Just a little tired lately. The stress. You know…"

Clarisse stood and pulled her hand away. "Stop. Just stop." He looked up at her imploringly but said nothing. "Things have to change, Rupert. And soon. If you don't want to tell me, then I will have to find out for myself."

She turned away from him and stalked down the aisle, through the curtain to the back of the cabin. Rupert felt tears sting his eyes. He would love nothing more than to tell someone about the heavy ache in his heart, the sickness of his soul at the thought of what he'd done and what he'd become. He could never tell her, though. He couldn't face the thought of what he would see in her eyes when she learned of what he had done.

_______________________________________________________________

The Queen was obviously angry as she threw back the curtain separating the Royal cabin from the rest of the Genovia One. Her voice was tight and clipped when she asked the stewardess for a cup of tea. The young woman was obviously disconcerted by the sound of the Queen's lacquered fingernails tapping out a rhythm of impatience on the counter as the watched pot failed to boil.

Joseph rose from his seat nearby and moved to the Queen's side. "Everything ok?" he asked quietly after the tea had been delivered and the stewardess had moved out of earshot.

"Yes," Clarisse replied shortly, the tea spoon clinking against the china cup as she stirred the tea somewhat violently.

"Are you sure?" he pressed.

"I'm fine. Just fine, Joseph. It was a simple question. And I gave you a simple answer. Is there a problem?" Clarisse snapped at him.

"Not at all, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly. "Enjoy your tea. We'll be landing in another ten minutes."

Without another word she turned away and swept back through the curtain to the front of the cabin. Joseph watched her for a moment before to his seat and buckling his seatbelt.

Genovia One landed without incident and the King and Queen were quiet during the ride back to the palace. Upon their arrival, the royal couple separated, each conferring with assistants on their way to their respective offices.

King Rupert was out of earshot by the time Clarisse met Charlotte in the foyer.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," Charlotte said, executing a small courtesy. "How was your trip?"

Joseph answered before Clarisse could say a word. "It was fine, Charlotte. Just fine," he said, parroting Clarisse's tone from their encounter on the plane. Clarisse favored him with an icy glare. Charlotte looked distinctly confused.

"I thought there was no problem, Joseph," Clarisse said sarcastically.

"Of course not, Your Majesty," he replied, even as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. He let his lips linger momentarily on her hand as he inhaled her perfume.

Clarisse couldn't help but shiver at the feel of his whiskers brushing across her hand. This small crack in her self-control did nothing to improve her mood. "Then kindly unhand me and let me get on with my work. Don't you have cameras you should be staring at? Somewhere else?"

"Monitors, Your Majesty. We stare at monitors." He spoke with stiff dignity, pretending to be offended. Charlotte watched the scene, trying not to laugh. Joseph was the only person who could talk to the Queen like this. And, as a result, he was often the only one that could draw her back into good spirits.

"How can you see them through those dark glasses, Joseph? You look like a blind man!" Clarisse countered.

Joseph laughed. "I wear the dark glasses to keep my X-ray vision in check."

"X-ray vision?"

"Yes. You can't imagine how disconcerting it is to be able to see through everything. The shades counteract the X-rays and I can see normally." Joseph appeared deadly serious and it was this, as much as the nonsense he was spouting that finally drew a smiled from the Queen.

"Oh, do go away, Joseph," she sighed. "I really do have work to do." Now, obviously more relaxed, she reached out and squeezed his forearm in a gesture of thanks. He smiled and patted her hand, then leaned in to whisper in her ear. "There is something you should know…"

"What's that?" she asked.

He leaned in again, lips brushing the hair next to her ear. "Sometimes, when I'm following along behind you…I take off the shades."

With that he withdrew, leaving the Queen a bit flustered and a lot happier than she'd been all day.

_________________________________________________________________________

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

The age-old words sounded desperate. Archbishop Montague recognized the voice. He'd seen the young prince in the church, kneeling at a pew, when he first entered the confessional. He seldom heard confession any more. Since he'd become Archbishop of Genovia almost a decade prior, he'd been much too busy with matters of administration. However, there were occasions when he helped fill in for other priests. This was one of those times.

There had been few people waiting for confession this day, as was the case more often than not. Pierre had waited until the sanctuary was empty before he entered the small dark booth.

"It's been two months since my last confession." The prince repeated the formulaic intonation as if that alone would save him.

"Since my last confession, I have committed the sins of –"

"Your Highness?"

"…arrogance, of envy, of –"

"Pierre!" The priest raised his voice just a notch.

"Yes, Father?"

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable if we simply talked? There is obviously something wrong. Why don't we go back to my office?"

"No, I can't!" He sounded desperate.

"Why not? You know that confession is about more than simply reciting lines. Let's talk about what is wrong."

"I..I can't." Pierre heaved a sigh. "I do need to talk to you, Father, but I have to make sure that what I tell you is in strictest confidence. I know you would never repeat what I say to you, but I need to make sure you are bound by the laws of confession. For your own protection, as well as mine."

"I am just as bound in the comforts of my office, as I am in this box, dear boy. Please, let's talk."

"Let's talk here," Pierre insisted.

"Very well." The Archbishop waited patiently.

The silence lengthened between them. The tension emanating from the other side of the screened partition was almost visible to the priest. He started to pray silently to himself. Eventually he heard a deep inhale and the Prince began to speak.

"I love my country. Genovia and my duty towards it have been drummed into me my entire life, Father. I want to serve Genovia. It's all I've ever wanted."

Montague did not speak. Patience was one of his virtues.

"I've been my father's student my entire life. He's been my role model, my tutor, my guide. But the older I get, the more I learn, the more I see.

"And the more I see, the more I hate what I see."

The Archbishop waited a few moments. "What do you see, Pierre?" he asked softly.

"Lust. Greed. And death."

"Lust and greed – that's only two out of the seven deadliest. I'm surprised you haven't seen more, dear boy."

"Oh, Jesus," Pierre moaned. Montague couldn't tell if it was a prayer or a curse. The Prince continued, "I have seen more. I've seen murder, Your Excellency. I watched my father murder a man. He didn't pull the trigger, but it was obvious he was a party to it. I never would have thought my father was capable of taking an innocent life and I don't know what to do."

"Oh dear God," the Archbishop murmured, not sure himself whether he meant it as a prayer or a curse. On the other side of the partition he could hear the hitching breaths as the young man tried to stifle his sobs. "Who have you talked to about this?" he asked at last.

"N-no one, Excellency. How could I? If my mother knew… It would destroy the monarchy and more importantly it would destroy her. Mother wouldn't let this pass. She would dismantle our family's rule herself if she thought that it was being supported by such crimes." Pierre paused for breath and turned his thoughts towards the Queen. "Father has turned more and more of his work over to her in the last year or so. My mother is basically running the country with my father acting as figure-head. She's not happy about it, but she's much too devoted to her duty to let that stop her."

"Pierre," the priest interrupted the prince's maternal musings. "You have to tell her. She's the Queen, she's your mother and she's his wife. She needs to know what is happening, don't you think?"

"No. I can never tell her. No one can know – there is too much at stake. If Father loses the throne, it would most likely pass to the Von Troken family. Can you imagine the state of turmoil that would leave the country in? It's unfathomable. No, the best course is for Mother to continue to rule, until…" His voice trailed off.

"Until you ascend the thrown?"

"No."

This was not the answer the priest expected. He waited again while the prince collected his thoughts.

"I cannot be king," Pierre said at long last. "Not after this. I will not speak of this to anyone again, after today. But I cannot take the throne, knowing what I know. I don't want to become the man my father is. He is – was – a good man. But he's never been faithful to my mother and now he's buried himself in some kind of selfish, greedy mire that has him neglecting the very duty that justifies his existence.

"I will never be king, Father."

"But, Pierre – Your Highness – what will happen when your father dies? What then?"

"I am going to abdicate. Philippe will become king in my stead. He's better suited for the role and he can assume the throne without the guilt that I am saddled with." Pierre's voice was strong and steady on this point. The Archbishop couldn't help but smile. The young man sounded very much like his mother.

"You've obviously thought this through," the priest said quietly. "I suppose there is no point in arguing with you."

"I'd prefer you didn't," Pierre replied drily.

"Don't you think that your knowledge of this atrocity will make you a better ruler? Isn't it possible it will strengthen your resolve not to let yourself be tempted by such power and freedom?"

"No, it's just not possible. I can't live the lie that would entail. This is the only solution."

"What happens now?" the Archbishop asked.

"Now I have to find a way to tell my parents that I'm not going to be king." Pierre sighed. "Pray for me, Excellency. And pray for my family."

"As you wish, my son," the soothing voice intoned.

As the Archbishop made his way home some time later, he thanked God for the seal of the confessional. He knew how guilty he felt for carrying this knowledge, even knowing full well he was bound by the laws of the Church never to reveal it. He could only imagine how his young friend, the prince, must be feeling. Pierre was doing what he thought was right. As best he could see it.

But was this really the best solution? Or was it just another in a long line of secrets that carved the heart and soul from his country's ruling family?


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N Hope you're still enjoying this. I'm sort of excited because we're finally getting to the good parts. haha! Keep reading and reviewing, you can't imagine how much it brightens my very existence!  
_

_In case you've forgotten, I own none of this. Disney does. And Meg Cabot. Lucky them._

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King Rupert had not spoken to Arthur Mabrey since returning from Lord Haversmith's funeral. There had also been calls on his private line from the cartel's managing director which the King had refused to take. Eventually he would have to speak to them, he knew, but each time he put it off, it gave him a small vestige of freedom. It wouldn't, couldn't last.

Rupert tried to throw himself back into his work, but concentration was difficult. Lack of focus meant nothing was being accomplished. After almost of a week of chaining himself to his desk, Rupert was glad of the chance to get out of his office and attend a session of parliament. As he sat through the proceedings, he could feel the worried glances from the Prime Minister. Twice the King had been addressed for comment, and both times it was obvious that he was oblivious to the debate.

Not wanting to face any questions from the Minister, Rupert gathered the few scrawled notes he'd made and slipped out the back as soon as the final gavel sounded. He hurried down the corridor, but was startled when Arthur Mabrey stepped out from behind a pillar and blocked his path.

"We need to talk, Your Majesty," Mabrey said.

"There isn't time," the King informed him as he stepped around him. Mabrey reached out and grabbed his arm, gripping it tightly. Surprised, the King stopped in his tracks. Robert, who'd been following along behind the monarch, immediately stepped forward and cleared his throat menacingly.

Mabrey locked eyes with the King. Rupert sighed and addressed his bodyguard. "Thank you, Robert, but the Viscount and I have some business matters that evidently cannot wait. We will speak in the conference room, Mabrey." The Viscount nodded and moved towards the door of the room the King had indicated. "Please wait here, Robert," Rupert asked. Then he followed the Viscount and shut the door behind them.

"You're taking quite a chance by accosting me like this, Arthur. You forget yourself. I could have you jailed for your impertinence alone." Rupert tried to sound unconcerned and aloof, but couldn't quite pull it off.

"I apologize for the liberties I've taken, Your Majesty," the Viscount began formally. "My other attempts to reach you have been unsuccessful. And it is imperative that we speak. The cartel –"

"I'm through with this, Arthur," Rupert interrupted. "I will not do it anymore. It's gone too far and has cost me too much. I can't risk the crown over this."

"You don't have a choice. You – we – are in too deep. And besides, what has it really cost us? A few sleepless nights, perhaps? That is a small price to pay in relation to all the money we have made from our joint venture."

"A few sleepless nights?" Rupert was incredulous. "We killed a man. And we killed him for a paltry thirty pieces of silver!"

"I'm not happy about it – but there was nothing we could have done. Kill or be killed. And the profits have been handsome."

"Profits won't save us from hell, Arthur."

"You're just being dramatic." Mabrey glowered at the monarch, his frustration building.

"I'm looking at losing my throne and my family!"

"Your family will never know!"

"Won't they? I've been threatened – warned. If Clarisse ever finds out –"

"What does it matter? What can she do? She's powerless without your endorsement! You are King. Not her!"

Rupert shook his head, dismissing Mabrey's comment. "I need her. Without her, I can't do this."

The Viscount made no effort to hide his disdain. "Since when does the King of Genovia need a woman – any woman – to do his job? Listen to yourself. Do you hear what you're saying? If Her Majesty doesn't approve then you're not willing to take any action. Pardon me for speaking so freely, but that borders on pathetic, Your Majesty."

A spark of fire lit in Rupert's eye as he drew himself up straighter. "I am the King, Arthur. I, alone, rule this country. But Clarisse is a huge part of what I do. She…she makes this work." Rupert turned away from Mabrey and crossed the room to stare out a window. "I never would have admitted this before, but I need her. Her influence on my legislative agenda has ensured I made some necessary reforms and improvements. She has an instinctual grasp of international diplomacy that I could never master even after years of education and practice. My success is due in large part to my wife." He turned back to his audience. "And you would have me throw all that away, just for money?"

"You are willing to let your wife take credit for what you've accomplished as King?" It was Mabrey's turn to be incredulous. "She has her place and she does her job well, no doubt. But how can you claim she's the reason for your success? Her duty was to provide you with sons to carry on the house of Renaldi. She's done that. You, King Rupert, are the one who rules this country. Of course she's helpful. How could she want to be anything else? But that doesn't change the fact that is it King Rupert, not Queen Clarisse, who makes the decisions. Your country has prospered under your reign, Your Majesty. All I'm saying is that it is time you got some sort of return on the sacrifices you've made for this country. And yet you tell me you're willing to give that up just to please your wife?"

"No, but…"

"But nothing! Her Majesty doesn't rule this country. If she's not willing to comply with your wishes, then it is time she has become and obstacle and you must deal with her as such. Or are you waiting on someone else to do it for you?"

"How dare you?!" Rupert was genuinely angry. "Never forget, Mabrey, I am your King. And if you try anything that would harm Clarisse in any way, I will destroy you."

"Queen Clarisse certainly has you bewitched, your Majesty," the Viscount sneered. "I can remember a time when you didn't find her nearly so captivating. What has changed?"

"I have. I've stopped being such a fool."

Mabrey eyed the King for a long moment, before turning away. As he made his way to the door, he paused and spoke to the King. "I apologize for anything I've said that's out of line. However, if you are taking the stance that keeping Her Majesty happy is more important than the work we've done for the San Cayetano, then I think it's time for a separate accounting. I want my money. You can handle this on your own from now on. I cannot cover for you with the cartel any longer. And I refuse to let you drag me down." Mabrey's eyes glinted like a rattlesnake, poised to strike. "Never forget – I know what you've done."

________________________________________________________________________________________

It was very late. The palace had long since shut down for the night. She should have been upstairs in bed, but her mind wouldn't slow down enough for sleep. Instead the Queen of Genovia ditched her guard outside the kitchen and made her way across the palace grounds in the moonlight.

She was worried about her oldest son. She was worried about her younger son, as well, if the truth be told. But the younger son was away at college in America. He was out of sight, if not out of mind. Her worries for him were baseless, diaphanous things that all mothers feel. The worries for the older son were much more concrete.

Pierre had always been the quiet one, the serious one. His brother was boisterous and happy-go-lucky as a child. Pierre had been happy, but was always more contemplative than his brother. He seemed especially withdrawn of late. Clarisse could tell something had changed, but didn't know what it was. He was absent from the palace more often than not. Tonight he was gone again. He was of age – he didn't have to tell her where he was. But she worried nonetheless.

As she walked, a car moved almost noiselessly up the long, winding drive. It didn't stop at the front of the palace, but continued around to the back, to the garages. It was a low, sleek black Mercedes – Pierre's car of choice. She changed her direction and walked towards the building, hoping to intercept her son. She heard muffled voices as she got nearer the building -- Pierre and his bodyguard. She stopped and leaned against a tree, the shadows hiding her from view.

Soon Pierre and the guard exited the building and walked up the path towards her. As they neared, she stepped into the moonlight and said, "Can we talk, Pierre?"

Both men started, then Pierre laughed. "Mother! You nearly scared us to death, hiding like that! You look like a ghost in that white robe." She smiled an apology. "You've been around Joseph too much, I think," he continued. "You're becoming as stealthy as he is." Pierre's guard stifled a laugh. The Queen addressed him, "Would you give us a few minutes, Matthew?" The guard bowed and moved off towards the palace doors, staying out of earshot, but keeping his charge in view.

Clarisse took Pierre's arm and he fell into step beside her. She was silent for a few minutes. He seemed to sense that she had something on her mind she wanted to discuss with him and he kept silent, waiting for her to say what she was thinking.

She finally spoke. "I love you, Pierre. I really do."

He laughed a little nervously. "Well, I'm glad to know that mother. I love you, too, you know."

"What's wrong Pierre? Something is going on with you."

Pierre didn't answer at first. He continued to walk alongside Clarisse. Finally, he spoke. "Where is Joseph tonight, Mother? He wouldn't like that you were walking out here alone."

Clarisse laughed. "Joseph is away at a conference. Terrance is supposed to be watching my every move. And what Terrance doesn't know won't hurt him."

"No, but make sure Joe doesn't hurt him," Pierre said with a grin. They walked in silence a bit longer. Clarisse knew he was avoiding her question, but she didn't push for an answer. Then, seemingly out of the blue, Pierre asked, "Why did you agree to an arranged marriage, mother?"

"Agree?" she laughed, genuinely surprised at her son's question. "I don't know that I agreed – I don't think I was really given a choice."

Pierre smiled. "No choice?"

"Well, I supposed I could have backed out if I had been desperate to, but it was all arranged when I was 9 years old, so I knew all along this was the life I would lead. It never occurred to me to back out of it."

Pierre found himself, not for the first time, curious about his mother's life choices. "I don't mean this like it sounds, Mother, but didn't you ever want anything other than this?"

Clarisse took a deep breath before she answered. "I knew what my duty was and it certainly wasn't unpleasant. It never occurred to me to that I could have had a different sort of a life." She paused and waited for Pierre to speak. When he didn't, she continued. "Rupert and I met several times over the years. At first it was awkward, since he was so much older than I. But as I got older the difference in our ages was less of an issue. The year before our marriage we spent quite a lot of time together, attending parties and functions together. We got along very well. I was rather excited about the wedding. It all worked out very well."

"If it was so great, then why didn't you arrange marriages for Philippe and I?" he asked, surprised at the question, even as it came out of his mouth.

"I, well, we… Why all these questions about marriage, Pierre? Is there something I should know?"

"Yes, I guess there is, but not what you're thinking," he replied with a rueful grin. "But please tell me – why didn't you and father continue the tradition of arranging your children's marriages?"

"Things have worked out well enough for Rupert and I, but obviously that is not always the case. Your father and I discussed this after you were born. I – we didn't want you to be locked into a future of our making. It was time for the custom to end. You should be free to marry someone you love – free to fall in love in your own time."

She squeezed Pierre's arm. "Can I assume then, that your time has come, darling?" she asked tentatively.

"No, I wish that were it," Pierre said quietly. He heaved a heavy sigh. "Where is father?"

"He is working late tonight." As she spoke, she gestured behind her in the direction of Rupert's second floor office window.

"Oh, really?" Pierre pointed to the darkened window. She turned to look, and stayed with her back to her son.

"What is this about, Pierre?" she asked, her voice colder than she intended.

"It's about me not being able to sit by and watch this charade, Mother." She turned to look at him then. He continued, "I know ours is not a normal family. But I can't stand to be part of this pretence any longer. And I don't know how you can. He's treated you shamefully and made a mockery of the honor of the Crown."

"What do you suggest I do? Divorce him?" She laughed bitterly. "It's not even a possibility and he knows that. He's not a bad man, Pierre. He's weak, perhaps, but he loves you and Philippe very much." She drew a somewhat ragged breath.

"Why do you defend him mother?" She just shook her head letting the silence drag out between them.

"Why must the two of you be constantly at odds, Pierre? The enmity between the two of you is tearing us all apart."

"My father is not the man he seems to be," Pierre said quietly. "Much of his life is hidden and secret. He is not the benign ruler he has appeared to be for so long. I used to believe in him, Mother. I used to believe in the possibilities of the throne. Not any longer." Pierre drew a deep breath. He stopped walking and turned to face Clarisse, taking her hands in his. "I' m going to Rome. I've already applied to enter the seminary. I can't stay here and watch this any longer."

"Seminary? Why?" Clarisse clutched her son's arms, searching his eyes for answers. "You can't mean that!" Her voice was almost harsh and she held him in a desperate grip.

"I didn't expect to be having this conversation right now. I wanted to wait. To settle some things, first," Pierre sighed. "I do mean this. I know it comes as a shock, but please trust me mother. The church is my duty now. Not the throne. Please try to understand." Clarisse tried to speak, but he cut her off. "It's late and we're both tired. I think it best we continue this later." With that he turned away and heading back into the palace. He stopped a few feet away and turned back towards Clarisse. "I love you, Mother. I don't want you to be hurt. Please be careful. I can't really explain what I mean, but… Just be careful." With that, he turned and ran inside. Clarisse was too stunned to protest. She stood watching his retreating form for a few moments.

"What is going on?" she muttered to herself. Making her way across the rose garden, she found sanctuary in the gazebo, collapsing onto a bench once she was inside. Her body felt as she'd been kicked in the chest by a horse. She couldn't quite catch her breath. Her son would be king. He had to be. It was what she had lived for and worked for all of her adult life. Had it all been in vain? The sacrifices she'd made – the years of relentless work, the loveless marriage, all of it was because one day her son would be king. Was this how it would end?

______________________________________________________________________

Joseph's car turned onto the palace grounds, unnoticed by anyone except the guards on duty at the gates and the security monitors. He'd taken an earlier flight, preferring to travel by night when the airports and planes were less crowded. That's what he told himself anyway. After stowing his car in the garage, he took his valise and headed straight for the security office.

There was no one there except the guard on night duty. He greeted Joseph, but didn't quite make eye contact. Joe noticed the reticence, but didn't comment on it. "All is well?" he asked instead.

"Yes, sir," was the stiff reply.

"Her Majesty? Retired for the evening?"

"Well, she was, but," the guard hesitated. Joseph pounced.

"Where is she?" he snapped.

"I just found her in the garden – the gazebo. She somehow managed to ditch Terrance. He's waiting at her suite. I was just about to radio him with her whereabouts when you came in," the guard said. Even though Joseph was only second in command, he was well known for taking the Queen's safety personally. He could deliver a stinging rebuke when he caught one of the guards not taking their duties seriously. This time however, he delivered only a single curse and said, "Don't bother calling him. Let him wait it out where he is. I will see to Her Majesty myself." The guard gave a quick "Yes, sir." and breathed a sigh of relief when Joseph left the office.

Joseph made his way to the gazebo in a few short moments. He slowed his gait when he got within earshot. Without really intending to, he moved silently up the path. The moon provided more than ample illumination for him, as did the few well-placed security lights.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded from the doorway.

Clarisse jumped and gasped out loud. She had no idea anyone was near.

Joseph crossed the floor in two strides and stood before her, arms across his chest. "See what could happen?" His voice was hard. "You had no idea I was out there. I could have been anyone. And yet you felt like it was a good idea to ditch your security and take off on your own!"

Clarisse looked up at him from where she sat, knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs.

"Why did you do this? What were you thinking?" he demanded.

Clarisse looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry," she finally choked out.

Something in her voice broke through Joseph's anger. He took a breath and looked at her closely. She was dressed for bed, a long white robe thrown over her pajamas and her feet encased in the barest of slippers. He hair was mussed, as if she'd run her hands through it over and over. He couldn't see her eyes, but he could hear tears in her voice. Anger melted away in an instant, and when he spoke his voice was contrite.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I didn't mean to yell." She didn't look up, so he continued, his voice still softer. "What's wrong?"

She tired to speak, but her voice wouldn't cooperate. Her hands moved to cover her face and he could hear a stifled sob. "Your Majesty?" He moved to sit beside her, placing an arm around her shoulders. "Clarisse?"

She broke at the sound of her name and grabbed for him. Joseph gathered her into his arms and let her pour herself out in his embrace. "Oh, Joseph," was all she managed to say.

Finally, the storm of emotion passed and she pulled back from where her head rested against his chest. "I can't do this anymore, Joseph. My…my family has fallen apart. I've lost my husband – if I ever even really had him. He spends his days playing at governance and his nights with whores. And now he's managed to drive Pierre away from his duty." She spoke faster as she enumerated her troubles to her friend. "Pierre wants to join the church, Joseph – to be a priest. He's already entered seminary! He's going to abdicate! Do you have any idea what this is going to do to Rupert?" She sucked in a breath. "And Philippe? He's still at school. He's never planned to be King. All of that will have to change – his whole life will change! He's so happy now – he plans to stay in America and go to graduate school. And he says he's in love with an American girl. If he has to become Crown Prince, he'll have to return to Genovia sooner than he planned and begin his official duties. And –"

"Clarisse! Stop! Breathe." Joseph said calmly. She stared at him, tears trembling at the ends of her eye lashes. Joseph reached up and brushed the tears away. "What does this mean for you, Your Majesty?"

"I don't know," she said, sighing deeply. "I… I feel so… lost. For years I've worked and sacrificed for the Crown. I thought I was doing the right thing – helping Rupert, making sure Pierre was equipped to be the best King he could possibly be when his time came. And now – it..it's all for naught."

"Your Majesty –," Joseph started to speak, but Clarisse silenced him by touching her fingers to his lips. "Please, Joseph – I don't need a body guard, I need a friend."

He smiled at her as he reached up and captured her fingers in his hand. "Clarisse," he corrected himself, "you're so worried about everyone else. What about you? Are you alright?"

"Sometimes I think I've never been alright." Joseph looked at her quizzically, not understanding what she meant. "My children have never really been just children. They are heirs. Their life's path was set from birth, or so we thought," she continued. "It was all I could do to fight for them to have the right to choose their own wives. I couldn't face the thought of them living the life I've lived. If my sons had to marry someone other than who they chose, it would break my heart. This is such a difficult job. They need someone they love to share their lives with."

Joseph, still holding her hand in his, reached out and touched the side of her face. "Who do you share your life with?" There was no answer. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said.

"I'm married to a man I've never been in love with, who's never been in love with me," she whispered, her eyes closed. She shuddered at the feel of his fingers trailing down the side of her face to her neck, along her jaw line. "I feel… empty."

"Clarisse?" he murmured.

She opened her eyes.

"You are loved," he said simply, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

This kiss was different from the first time he'd kissed her. The first time was all about lust and desire. This time he wanted her to know how deeply he felt for her. Her lips were warm and soft in response to his touch. He shifted closer to her on the bench, taking her into his arms. Surprised at how small she felt snuggled up against him, his heart broke for her. A soft moan was the only sound between them. Joseph pulled her even tighter against him. The moon had obligingly traveled behind a thick bank of clouds and the interior of the gazebo was not lighted. The security cameras could do little more than pick out vague figures in the darkness of the small building.

The rough texture of his hands registered somewhere in the back of her mind as they skimmed across her cheeks and down her neck. Most of her mind was concerned with the soft texture of his lips against hers. Then she felt his tongue sweep lightly across the barrier of her lips and her mind was taken out of the experience all together. Emotion washed over her. The feeling was all there was – it was her total existence at that moment. Warmth and passion swelled inside her, filling her, taking away the emptiness for the first time in a very long time.

Joseph found himself unable to get close enough to Clarisse. Their kisses were awakening the desire he worked so hard to repress day in and day out. The passion between them pushed at the defenses he'd built. He shifted on the bench, drawing her more tightly against his body. Her breasts pressed against him, feeling full and heavy. He groaned deep and low in his throat. Running his hand up the back of her neck, he caught hold of her hair and gently forced her head back, giving himself access to the silky skin of her neck. He pressed feathery kisses there, as the fingers of his other hand trailed across her chest, under her robe and across the top of her breast.

She gasped his name and pulled his head away from where he'd been nuzzling her earlobe. The smoky desire she could see in his eyes matched the warmth pooling inside of her. For a long moment they didn't move – she held his face in her hands, his hands cradled her body.

"Damn you, Joseph," she finally whispered. "You don't make this any easier. I could have lived the rest of my life not knowing what I was missing."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. "If it makes you feel any better, you won't be suffering alone." He grinned at her.

"It doesn't," she chuckled.

Joseph pulled her tight against his chest once more, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be. And please don't ever stop being my friend." She snuggled more tightly against him. "I can promise you that will never change," he replied.

Joseph lost track of how long they sat on the bench, wrapped in each other's arms. Finally her deep, steady breathing told him she'd fallen asleep. He shifted carefully and managed to get to his feet with her still in his arms. The movement stirred her and she opened her eyes to realize that Joseph was carrying her out of the gazebo.

"Joseph! I can walk!"

"Shut up and go back to sleep," he grinned at her. "If you will at least pretend, I can have the pleasure of carrying you up to your bed and tucking you in."

She laughed and dropped her head back to his chest. "Far be it from me to deny you."

"Oh, is that so?" he asked. She laughed again and settled into his arms, eyes tightly closed, and enjoyed the ride.

The next morning, the maid's gossip centered on Mr. Joseph and how terribly gallant he was for searching out the exhausted Queen and carrying her so carefully up to her rooms. The Queen's own maid reported that he'd been so gentle with the sleeping monarch the she never even stirred as he laid her on the bed and slipped out of the bedroom. The general consensus was that Joseph could put any of them to bed at any time he wanted, but they certainly weren't going to sleep through the experience.


	16. Chapter 16

Rupert raised his head from his hands and peered unseeingly out the window. The castle grounds sparkled in the moonlight under the sheen of a soft summer rain. The king stood and left the cradle of his massive desk and walked to the window of his office. He pressed his head against the cold glass. It had been almost two weeks since Pierre announced he would abdicate the throne. The young man was already in Rome, his entrance into the seminary there had won speedy approval. The night Pierre had informed the King of his decision had been one of the longest of Rupert's life. The abdication was cause enough for insomnia, but Rupert had seen something in his son's eyes that frightened him. He was almost certain his heir knew much more about the sins of his father than Rupert would have supposed.

Everything he had feared was happening. And there was no way out. He would be ruined. Now that the cartel had him by the balls, there would be no stopping them. They would bleed him dry of any influence and power that he had. If he'd been stronger – more like Clarisse – he could have stopped this before it got this far. Before he killed a man.

Already the cartel was making new demands. There were always going to be problems they wanted him to help solve. It couldn't continue. The monarchy would be ruined. His family disgraced. Five hundred years of Renaldi reign would end with him. Parliament was powerful enough to make that happen if he gave them a big enough scandal. And that is just what he was in the midst of doing.

And his sons – what would become of them? They revered him, expected only greatness from him. They trusted him. All of that would be lost. Clarisse? What of her? She already suspected him of something, but surely not something as heinous as this. He was a murderer. As surely as if he had the man's blood on his hands. What would become of her? She would be devastated, broken. She might rant and rave at him, but then she would press forward, quietly, elegantly, doing all the right things to dismantle their rule and remove the family from the public eye. And she would hate him. Their relationship, such as it was, could never survive her knowledge of what he had become.

He was surprised to find how much that fact hurt him.

Rupert had begun to take steps to correct some of him wrongs. Without Arthur Mabrey's knowledge, he had take the funds from their San Cayetano exploits and carefully hidden them in foreign bank accounts. He'd managed to stall off, successfully so far, the Viscount's requests for a separate accounting. It would be a while before Mabrey figured out the King had made off with their fortune and Rupert wasn't inclined to tell the him. It was blood money, money that Rupert would never spend. He would leave it to someone else to figure out the best use for it – to do something good with it. Clarisse could make that decision. She would know how best to use the money to make up for his mistakes.

Rupert took a deep, ragged breath as he studied the grounds below. The beauty of the rain-drenched scene registered on him and he noted this was the place where he had first watched Clarisse and Joseph in the garden. It was the day she had received the photo of him and another woman. He was standing at the window as his wife emerged from her greenhouse, accompanied by another man. That wasn't so odd, but this time he could see that Joseph wasn't just a guard, he was another man. He watched Joseph watch Clarisse as she strode back towards the palace. There was something there, in the look on the man's face, which burned into Rupert's soul.

Suddenly, Rupert needed to see her, to touch her. She hadn't let him near her since that day with Joseph in the greenhouse. Instinct told him not to force the issue. He rubbed his face roughly with his hands, then left the office. Footfalls echoed in the hallways as he made his way to her suite. As he drew near, the footman on duty told him she was down in the kitchen. He merely nodded and left.

As he neared the kitchen he heard her voice, throaty and low. Then she laughed. It was a beautiful sound and one he realized he seldom got to hear. That realization tore yet another hole in the fabric of his heart. He never really made her laugh. Not anymore. Not for a long, long time.

He stopped just outside the door. Another voice reached his ears. This one was rougher, a man's voice. Joseph's voice. They laughed together, evidence of an easy camaraderie. What were they doing together, late at night, in the bowels of the castle? Jealousy ebbed in Rupert's chest. But the feeling cooled almost as soon as it appeared. Of course she wouldn't be doing anything untoward. Not Clarisse. And really, who else did she have to talk to? Not him. He never bothered to spend time with her like that. His breath caught in his throat. He almost choked on it and pushed open the door.

Part of him fully expected to startle the two of them from each other's arms. From the tones of the speech and laughter, he was all but certain he would find them together, bodies entwined like lovers. Instead, he found Clarisse and Joseph sitting on opposite sides of the large wooden table, cards and chips spread between them. They were evidently playing poker. A plate of cookies and two tall glasses of milk completed their torrid tableau.

"Rupert!" Clarisse exclaimed in surprise. "You are just in time! I need you to have this man imprisoned!" She and Joseph both laughed and the King managed a smile.

"What has he done to deserve such a punishment?" he asked, acknowledging Joseph's bow with a nod of his head and indicating that he should resume his seat. Rupert pulled out a chair next to Clarisse and sat down.

"He will not let me win," she said and smacked the back of Joseph's hand with her cards as he reached across the table to pull the pile of poker chips towards him.

"I'm sure Your Majesty would not appreciate being patronized," Joseph said smoothly. "How can you expect to learn the game if I let you win?"

"I would simply expect everyone else to let me win as well. It works out," she said imperiously. Joseph laughed.

Clarisse dealt the cards and the two players studied their suits in silence for a moment. Rupert slipped his arm around the back of her chair and leaned in to study the cards Clarisse held in her hand. "That is a perfectly rotten hand, Clarisse."

"Isn't it? I do believe he's cheating, Rupert."

"He must be, my dear, or otherwise you are quite possibly the worst poker player I've ever seen."

Clarisse laughed delightedly and Joseph smiled. Rupert got up from the table and retrieved a couple of bottles of German beer that the chef kept stashed for him in an ice cold refrigerator. He placed one next to Joseph before he sat down and opened his own bottle.

"Thank you, Your Majesty, but I'm still on duty, more or less. I will just stick to milk," Joseph said apologetically.

"On duty?" Clarisse asked. "You mean to tell me this game is merely a part of your babysitting job and you're getting paid for this? In addition to all the money you're winning?" She scowled at him, pretending to be angry.

"I'm not getting paid. I'm just…on call," Joseph replied sheepishly.

"I think what he's trying to tell you is that he doesn't drink when he's babysitting, as you so delicately put it, Clarisse," Rupert said dryly. "Babysitting," he said disgustedly. "I'm hurt that you think so little of the security I try to provide for you. And I'm sure Joseph's feelings must be damaged as well." Rupert tried to sound petulant, then he smiled and addressed the guard, "Does she always treat you this poorly?"

Joseph's expression was one of long-suffering acceptance. "I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. It is rather painful. There are many nights that I cry myself to sleep because of the humiliation and degradation that Her Majesty heaps upon me on a daily basis." He sighed deeply.

"I suppose you'll be wanting a raise?" Rupert asked.

"Well, now that you mention it, money might help assuage my sorrow. I might also take up heavy drinking."

Rupert raised his bottle to the other man in mock salute. "I highly recommend it. It's always worked for me."

The Queen rolled her eyes at the two of them. "You two seem to think you're very funny. Are we going to play cards or are you just going to sit here and entertain yourselves? Because if so, I can just as easily play solitaire in my room."

"By all means, do continue, my dear."

"Shall I deal you in, sir?" Joseph asked.

"No, I think I will try to salvage some of Clarisse's dignity and help her out. Before she loses the crown jewels to you," Rupert replied.

Clarisse grabbed her cards off the table and held them to her chest. "Who said I was going to let you help me? I'm perfectly capable of doing this on my own!"

"I don't dispute that. I just think it would be nice if you didn't lose every possible hand," her husband replied as he slid his chair closer to hers. He rested his chin on her shoulder. "Besides, you'll have to look at those cards at some point, and I'll see them too."

She glared at him out of the corner of her eye, noting that his gaze rested somewhere south of her face. "I don't think you're looking at my cards, darling," she purred. The king laughed. Clarisse was shocked to realize that she was flirting with her husband. That hadn't happened since…well, she wasn't entirely sure that it had ever happened. Suddenly embarrassed and unwilling to pursue the matter in Joseph's presence, she held the cards out and said, "Oh, fine. What should I do?"

Rupert smiled and reached around his wife's shoulders to point to a card. "Get rid of that one for starters."

Clarisse shrugged and did as he'd said. They played out the hand and Joseph won once again. As Joseph reached across the table to sweep his winnings into his ever-growing pile, Clarisse glared at Rupert. "Well?" she asked sarcastically.

Rupert shrugged good-naturedly and laughed.

"Deal him in Joseph," Clarisse said. "I can lose that easily on my own." As she spoke, she moved to a chair on the side of the table, between the two men.

Rupert grinned at the other two. "Alright, fine. Deal me in. Both of you are going down in flames, now."

Joseph laughed and dealt the cards.

The three of them were silent as they studied their cards. Rupert played his hand first. Clarisse leaned in to scrutinize the cards her husband laid down. As she did, she could feel a foot on the back of her calf, moving slowly up and down her leg. She didn't move, but slid her eyes up and around until she caught her husband's gaze. He grinned. "See anything you like?" he asked.

"Not really. That's a very small pair you've got there," she smirked at him.

The foot pulled away and Clarisse settled back into her chair. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about his not-so-subtle advances. She couldn't deny that she enjoyed the attention, but she hadn't taken him back to her bed since she'd received the incriminating photograph. Was she ready for that to change?

They continued to play for almost an hour. The King became more and more relaxed as the game went on. He could not remember when he'd last spent so much time just being with his wife – without an agenda. The easy camaraderie between the Queen and her security guard seemed to change a bit while he was there, but his presence didn't stifle it completely.

He didn't want to admit it to himself, but Rupert also felt a sense of relief at the utter guilelessness of their behavior in front of him. There was none of the hushed tones or nervous glances he would expect from two illicit lovers in the presence of a cuckold. He'd never really believed they were having an affair, but nevertheless he felt a weight lift from his heart as he accepted the knowledge that they were not carrying on behind his back. Mabrey had once insinuated that the Queen was sleeping with her bodyguard, although Rupert had known that all along that it wasn't true. Still, it eased his mind to see the relationship between his wife and her friend for himself.

After a few more hands were played, Rupert got up and crossed behind Clarisse to open the massive refrigerator. He stuck his head inside, searching for something to munch on. He found a plate of sliced ham and brought it back over to the table. He rolled one of the slices into a tube and bit into it as he stood behind Clarisse, looking over her shoulder.

"I know what you're doing," she said, still studying her cards.

"Do you?" he asked, moving closer and brushing his upper thigh along the back of her shoulders. "I'm hungry. Thought I would get a snack."

"And steal a look at my cards, while you're at it?" she asked somewhat crossly as she shifted forward in her chair, away from his touch.

"Never hurts to size up the competition," he said musingly.

She sniffed derisively and motioned for him to sit down. He did, and the game continued.

After losing yet another hand, Clarisse looked dejectedly at her remaining pile of chips, her chin resting on her hand and her elbow on the table. She looked over at Joseph when he started to laugh. Her eyebrow raised in question.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he said, still laughing.

"I doubt that!" she accused him. "What is so funny?"

"It's just that you don't look this forlorn when Parliament fights with you or you have to sit through yet another boring state dinner. But now that you've lost a few poker chips, you look as if your best friend just died," he said, and the King joined his laughter.

She glared at him. "Just be careful, Joseph, or that last bit could be arranged." Then she smiled. Their eyes locked and Joseph grinned at her good naturedly. Her smile widened under his gaze. Rupert felt like he was watching from the sidelines. He could sense the intensity of the feeling behind Joseph's gaze. Rupert had looked at his wife that way a few times himself.

But no, this was different. Joseph didn't sweep his gaze over the enticements of Clarisse's body. He looked into her eyes. His adoration was evident, but it wasn't blatantly sexual.

Rupert shifted his gaze to his wife. She finally dropped her eyes from Joseph's but there was a faint flush to her cheeks. Her eyes were sparkling when she felt his stare and looked over at him. He forced himself to smile, despite the heavy sadness that settled down over him.

Rupert felt jealousy surge inside him again. Not because he didn't want the security guard near his wife, but jealous that he had structured his life in such a way that he didn't have a similar friendship with her. Clarisse had been the closest he'd ever come to having a true friend and he'd messed that up. Certainly none of the nubile young women he cavorted with could be called friends. Not even close. He had many acquaintances and many people he enjoyed spending time with, but none of them were people he could be sure of – people that valued him as a person and not a King. None of them enjoyed his company; they enjoyed the company of The King.

Envy, or maybe just a need for human contact, pushed Rupert to reach out across the table and rest his hand on his wife's arm. He felt her stiffen under his touch, but she said nothing. She moved from his grasp and began dealing the cards. Rupert sat back in his chair and picked up his cards. Noting what cards he held, he placed them back on the table, face down.

He leaned closer to Clarisse and again touched her arm. "Want to trade cards, darling? Mine might be better."

She laughed and made a face at him.

He took that as encouragement and took her hand in his, running his thumb along her elegant fingers. When she tried to pull her hand away from his, he grasped tightly. She glanced at him with a startled expression. He stared deep into her eyes.

"Clarisse, you…"

Before he could finish, she jumped up from her chair. Both men looked at her questioningly. "I – was there anything else in the refrigerator that looked good, Rupert?" she asked, moving away from the table.

"Nothing that looks as good as you, my dear, but I'm sure you'll find something," he replied, still hoping to catch her eye, but she kept her back turned.

"Do you want something else to eat, Joseph?" she asked.

"No, thank you, I can get something later," he said quickly. The tenor of the game had changed, suddenly, and he felt like an intruder.

"Joseph! Are you hungry or not? Please don't stand on ceremony with me," she almost pleaded.

"Alright, alright!" he laughed as he joined her at the open refrigerator. "Do you want to split that last piece of pie?"

"Perfect!" she exclaimed and brought the dish over to the table, while Joseph retrieved forks from the kitchen drawer. He brought a knife and three forks back to the table and offered one to the King. Rupert shook his head no.

While he watched Clarisse and especially Joseph, he could see that they had connected on a personal level. Their personalities meshed. They made each other laugh. They could tease and make jokes. They were simply happy with the other person. That was something he would never have. And it was his own fault.

"You can't do that, Your Majesty," Joseph said, his voice drawing Rupert from his silent reverie. The cards had been dealt again.

"Why not?" Clarisse demanded. "My pair beats your Ace!"

"Not with those cards," Rupert interjected. "The Queen and King don't make a pair."

"They're both 'face cards'," she said contritely. "Does this mean Joseph's ace beats my king?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, my dear. He's won again." Rupert rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous.

The game continued for a while longer.

"I think that's it for me," Clarisse sighed as she pulled the small pile of chips towards her. "I'm quitting while I'm not very far behind."

"At least the Renaldi wealth remains almost intact," Rupert said. "We've managed to wrench most of it back from the clutches of the Spanish knave."

Joseph laughed. "I'm somewhat concerned that the royal family could be put into such danger by the outcome of a penny ante poker game."

Clarisse and Rupert joined his laughter, then Clarisse pushed her chair away from the table. She stretched and yawned. "I'm going to bed," she announced. "I'll leave you to collect my winnings, Rupert." He merely nodded while peeling the label from his beer bottle. She paused at the door and looked back at him, her expression softer than before. He never looked up. She stood at the door a moment longer, but failing to catch his gaze, she turned and left.

Joseph stacked the cards and chips and began putting them back in their small black case. Rupert sat and stared down at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table. Joseph's eyes remained discretely on the King as he finished putting away the cards.

"Are you all right, sir?" His voice was genuinely concerned.

"Not really Joseph. Not really."

"Can I help?"

Rupert looked up then and noted that Joseph had once again taken the seat across the table from him. They regarded each other frankly across the wooden expanse. Joseph finally broke the somewhat awkward silence.

"She cares for you. Very much."

Somewhat stunned by the other man's perception, Rupert replied, "I care about her as well. But she doesn't love me. We could have had something extraordinary together, but now it's too late."

"It's never too late." Joseph's voice was quiet, full of conviction. "Not if you really love her."

Rupert was silent for a while longer, still playing at tearing the label off the beer bottle. His head was spinning. Joseph had no idea of the mistakes Rupert had made. He wouldn't understand how it really was too late. There was only one way to save his reign and his family's sovereignty. He had to make a choice – either the continuation of the Renaldi reign or starting over and making a true marriage with Clarisse.

Duty. It was all about duty. Duty over love.

He really didn't have a choice.

Drawing in a long breath, he pushed his chair back from the table. Palms flat on the surface, about to push himself to his feet, he paused. "Do me a favor, Joseph?"

"Of course, sir."

"Tell her for me. Tell her that no matter what happens, I do love her. She'll believe you."

"Sir?" Joseph sounded surprised. "That's not a message that should be delivered by me. Why not tell her yourself?" Joseph gestured out the door.

Standing now, Rupert cleared his throat. "You're right, of course. I will tell her myself. But, I have some business I must finish up tonight. Tomorrow will be a very busy day. I expect you will see her before I do. Please pass along my message?"

Somewhat disconcerted by the hollow sound of the King's voice and the almost pleading tone he took at the end, Joseph merely nodded his assent.

"Thank you," the King replied and left the kitchen.

Joseph sat quietly for a few more minutes, trying to understand what had just happened. All he knew for sure was he wouldn't want a marriage like that one. How Clarisse managed to survive it for so long, he could not understand. She and her husband seemed like mere acquaintances or business partners, hardly even friends, most of the time. At other times they exhibited a flash of feeling that bordered on intimacy, but it never appeared to last very long. Joseph rubbed his eyes, then stood up and stretched his arms wide, working out the kinks in his muscles. He wanted no part of that sort of sham, he told himself. Imagine having someone else – an employee, no less – tell your wife how you feel about her! He would know his wife intimately, were he to marry. And she certainly wouldn't have to wonder whether or not he loved her. He would tell her and show her, thousands of times in thousands of ways.

She would know his heart.


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning, Joseph was seated at his desk in the security office, compiling a report on hours worked the previous week so that Robert could finalize the next month's schedule. Paperwork didn't comprise a large part of Joseph's job and for that he was very grateful. However, he took pride in his work and knew that accuracy from him made Robert's job easier. He also knew he had been designated as Robert's replacement when the older man retired. The paperwork would surely increase at that time and Joseph knew the good habits he cultivated now would serve him well then.

In between spurts of productivity, he'd been replaying the previous evening's conversation in his mind. He still didn't know what had possessed him to speak to the King about Clarisse. The truth of what he said was evident – if Clarisse hadn't cared for her husband, he wouldn't have been able to cause her so much grief. But what had he expected His Majesty to say? Prior to last night, Joseph thought King Rupert has no real depth of feeling for his wife. But by the end of the evening, he had to admit that didn't seem to be the case. Did the King really love the Queen?

Whatever the answer, Joseph had no intention of passing along the King's message. Playing cupid for the King was definitely not in his job description, he grumbled to himself. The whole situation was too far outside normal for Joseph to make any sense of it. All he knew for sure was that he was in love with another man's wife, right or wrong. But loving Clarisse seemed a lot nobler before last night.

The phone next to him rang, the display notifying him the call came from His Majesty's office. Joseph sighed, then picked up the receiver.

"Security. This is Joseph." His voice was crisp and professional.

"Joe, check the log – is anyone besides Andrew assigned to His Majesty right now?" Robert's voice came across the line, sounding tense and tight.

"One moment." Joseph keyed up information on his computer. "No, only Andrew. What's wrong?"

"Damn. Ok, it's probably nothing, but I don't want to take a chance. We've dropped coverage on His Majesty and no one knows where he is. I'm taking Andrew with me and we'll track him down. Just to be safe, I want you with Her Majesty as well as whomever is assigned to her right now. Don't alarm her, but I don't want any other slip-ups until we know where the King is."

"I'm on my way. I'll take a radio."

"Right," was Robert's clipped reply as he terminated he conversation.

Joseph grabbed his hand-held radio and snapped its leather holder to his belt. It was cumbersome and sometimes provided inadequate coverage, but it was the only form of instant communication between members of the security staff. All of the security equipment needed upgrading, in Joseph's opinion, but now was not the time to dwell on the matter. Grabbing his leather jacket off the back of his chair, he ran a hand over his shoulder holster just to reassure himself his sleek black service revolver was in place. That bit of equipment was top of the line and had no need of an upgrade. He was pulling on the jacket as he left the office and made his way quickly to the Her Majesty's office.

Anthony, the guard assigned to the Queen this morning, was standing just outside the door to her private office. Charlotte Cutaway, Her Majesty's personal assistant was typing at a furious pace as Joseph strode through the door. Both looked up at him, somewhat surprised by his purposeful entrance.

"Is Her Majesty inside?" Joseph demanded of Tony.

"Yes sir – She's just come back from her morning meeting and doesn't expect to leave again until sometime late this afternoon," Tony replied, his eyebrows raised in unspoken question.

Joseph nodded.

"Is something wrong?" Charlotte asked, her fingers paused over the keyboard. Joseph was surprised it wasn't smoking. Charlotte had been working as the Queen's assistant for almost two years. Her steady commitment to her job, which apparently allowed her little time for a private life, made her rich fodder for most of the single men on staff. Their attempts at both fraternization and outright seduction had all been met with a wide-eyed stare of polite disinterest.

"I don't think so, but Robert wants to double the coverage for a while," Joseph replied. "Evidently His Majesty has slipped away from his guards. Until we receive an all clear, security is to be tightened up. Other than that, I don't know anything."

"Should we tell her?" Charlotte motioned towards the door.

"Not yet. Not until we know whether or not there is really a problem." Joseph's voice trailed off at the sound of the latch opening on the Queen's door.

"What kind of problem, Joseph?" the Queen asked. Joseph turned to face her, trying to keep his expression nonchalant.

"His Majesty has evidently ditched his security, ma'am," Joseph said lightly.

Clarisse raised an eyebrow and smiled at him. "I thought that was my job. Rupert never tries to escape his guards." She walked past him and laid a folder on Charlotte's desk.

"I'm here in case you had any idea of joining him, Your Majesty," Joseph said.

"Oh really? You think I couldn't escape from you?" She grinned at him challengingly.

He was about to reply, when his radio beeped. He returned her grin and keyed the mike. "Go ahead, Robert."

"Are you with Her Majesty?"

"Yes, she's right here."

"Ask her to stay in her office with Tony. I need you down here at the stables."

Joseph raised his eyes in question at the Queen. Openly curious, having heard the exchange between the two men, she nodded her agreement.

"She agrees," Joseph said. "I'll be there in five minutes."

"What's going on, Joseph?" Clarisse asked quietly, her bantering manner suddenly serious.

"I don't know, Your Majesty, but I promise I'll let you know something as soon as I can." Without waiting for an answer, since he feared her reply would be another question, he turned on his heel and left the office.

Robert was waiting for him with a golf cart outside the stables. "His Majesty's horse returned alone," Robert told him tersely. "One of the grooms saw him ride off in this direction." Robert indicated the rear of the palace grounds. "I'm sending Andrew and another team out to the south. You and I will take the north and we'll meet in the middle." Joseph climbed in beside him and they took off.

This area of the property was heavily wooded close where it ran to the palace, but soon opened up into windswept meadow. They were not too far from the sea and the high white cliff that towered over the tumultuous bay below. Joseph scanned the ground as they drove, expecting to see His Majesty lying there, felled by a low-hanging tree branch, perhaps.

They found nothing. Eventually they reached the edge of the property, the cliff overhanging the bay. They searched along the coastline for almost two hours. Every available member of the palace security detail was involved in the search by now. Robert had already fielded three calls from Charlotte. Her Majesty was becoming impatient and demanded to know what was going on. Robert told her as much as they knew. He left it to Charlotte to decide how to pass this information on to the King's wife.

Finally Robert decided it was time to notify the military and expand the search. The man's voice shook ever so slightly as he advised Joseph of his decision. Joseph agreed and said he would remain behind to continue the search. As Robert drove away in the golf cart, Joe began to walk the edge of the cliff. His eyes kept to the ground, looking for tracks, for anything that could be a clue.

Finally he found what he was looking for and what he was hoping not to find - freshly disturbed earth at the very edge of the cliff. This was a particularly dangerous area, prone to falling away under the feet of anyone walking too close to the edge. Keeping this in mind, he laid down flat on the ground and inched his way closer to the edge, keeping the weight of his body as far from the face of the precipice as possible. He crawled to the edge and peered over. He lay there, unmoving, for long moments, then slowly got to his feet.

He keyed his radio to life. "Robert?" Upon hearing the response, he said, "Call off the notification. Copy?"

"Copy. What have you found?"

"Not over the radio."

Joseph heard the man's sigh of comprehension. "I'm headed to you."

Replacing the radio on his belt, Joseph looked up at the sky and muttered a curse. Then his mind went to work. He began to survey the scene, careful not to disturb anything. There were marks at the cliff's edge, but nothing that positively indicated a struggle. He could find nothing on the ground – no evidence of any kind.

He knew in his heart that there was no way anyone could have survived the fall, but he started looking for a way to descend the cliff. Head bent, and eyes scanning the ground, he didn't immediately notice Robert's arrival.

"What have you found?"

Joseph jerked his head around, registering his boss' presence. "He's down there," he said, indicating the edge of the cliff.

Robert began to walk to the edge, but Joseph grabbed his arm. "Wait! It could crumble under your feet. Best to lie down and crawl to the edge," he said.

"Oh, right," Robert answered distractedly. Both men got down on their stomachs and approached the drop off. They were silent for several minutes as the contemplated the body broken on the rocks below. Even from this distance, it was evident he had not survived the fall.

When he finally moved away and sat up, Joseph could see tears forming in Robert's eyes.

"Dammit!" the older man cursed, rubbing a hand across his face. Joseph sat in silence, eyes on the horizon. Robert looked down at his hands, despair written in his expression.

After a few minutes, Joseph spoke quietly. "We can get to him from up here, but I don't think we can bring him back up this way. We need to retrieve the body from below. Perhaps if we – "

"The Body?" Robert interrupted angrily. "He is your King! Not just The Body!"

Joseph sucked in a breath, but spoke in his normal quiet tone. "I'm sorry Robert. I meant no disrespect."

Robert shook his head before lifting his eyes to meet Joseph's. "I can't believe this." Pain was etched on his features. "I swore an oath to protect him. I've done just that for almost 20 years. King Rupert and I grew up together, in a sense. I can't believe I let this happen." Robert's breath caught in his throat. His eyes shown with grief and apprehension. "What are we going to tell Her Majesty?"

Joseph nodded. He could only imagine what the other man must be feeling. He understood how easy it was to get close to person they guarded. He understood all too well.

"We still have a duty to him," Joseph said quietly. "We need to get down there. Shall I contact the coastal patrol to bring a rescue boat?"

Robert sighed, then drew himself up straighter as he pulled himself up off the ground. "Yes, you're right. I don't want word of this leaking out until we've notified Her Majesty." He drew himself up straight and addressed Joseph in something closer to his normal voice. "I'm going down there." He held up a hand as Joseph started to protest. "It's my responsibility. I have to do it. I need you to do a much harder job, Joe. Her Majesty is closer to you than to me. She would take this easier coming from you." He looked imploringly at his subordinate. "Will you go back to the palace and tell her?"

Joseph nodded his agreement. It wasn't a job he wanted, but it wasn't a job he wanted to trust to anyone else. He had no idea how she would react to the news that she was now a widow, but she deserved any protection or solace he could offer. Joseph walked back to the golf cart, and turned towards the castle.

The palace doors were unguarded when he entered. Evidently the footmen had joined the search. He made his way silently to the Queen's office. Charlotte was standing at the window, gazing out over the palace grounds when the he entered the room. She turned expectantly; worry creasing her normally placid features. Joseph answered her unspoken question with a curt shake of his head.

"Oh, no," she murmured quietly.

"Her Majesty is inside?" he asked. Charlotte nodded mutely.

Anthony answered Joseph's knock. Joseph asked him to wait outside. Clarisse was immediately on her feet and striding towards him. "Where is he? Is he alright?" she asked quickly.

Clarisse stared at Joseph, her eyes wide with concern. He stepped forward and took hold of his Queen's hand. "Joseph?" she asked quietly, her voice already shaking with emotion.

Grasping her hand tightly, he said, "Your Majesty, I am so very sorry. We – we found His Majesty at the bottom of the cliffs. I'm afraid he…he was killed in a fall."

She swayed slightly, the room began to spin. Joseph stepped forward and caught her before she fell. "No," she moaned softly, her eyes glazed with shock. She gripped his upper arms, hanging on to him as if she was drowning and he was her life preserver.

He made no reply.

"Where is he?" She looked up at Joseph. "It can't be him. You're wrong. It's not Rupert."

"I'm so sorry," he repeated, wishing there was something else to say.

She was silent for a moment, her eyes locked on his as she fought to process what he'd just told her. Then she pulled violently out of his arms.

"This is one of his little jokes, isn't it, Joseph? I don't find it the least bit funny." Her voice shook. "Please get out of my office. Now. I have work to do."

Joseph could now feel the prick of tears in his own eyes. "Your Majesty – Clarisse – please. This is real. You must believe me." She ignored him and blindly picked up a sheaf of papers from her desk. Searching momentarily for her glasses, she finally gave up and threw the papers to the floor. Her denial crumbled and anger took its place.

Joseph stepped towards her, just as she lashed out at the top of her desk, sweeping a large portion of the items there off into the floor. He reached for her hand, but she turned on him and slapped him hard across the face. He gasped more from surprise than pain.

"Where were you? Where was Robert? What were you doing? How could you let this happen?" she screamed at him. "How?" Silence for a moment. "Why?" she asked again, softer now, her anger fading as quickly as it had flared.

He tried to meet her eyes, but he couldn't. He'd been the bearer of bad news to other people in other places and times. But now he stood before the woman he loved and informed her that her husband was dead. Having delivered the news, he stood mute before the onslaught of her grief. It should have been easy to reach out to her and offer comfort. Instead he was distracted; his mind couldn't wrap itself around the conflicting emotions this news caused him. The fact that he felt anything at all other than sorrow shamed him deeply.

Clarisse stood before him, trembling with emotion. If he'd looked into her face, he would have registered the surprise and hurt in her eyes at his reaction. She needed a friend, a comforter. She thought he was her friend, but he just stood there – a statue, a silent servant, nothing more. She turned away and grasped the edge of her desk for support. Tears fell freely, making tiny splashes on the polished rosewood surface.

Suddenly aware of how selfish his reaction had been, Joseph reached out and placed a hand on her trembling shoulder. She turned slowly towards him, allowing him to take her in his arms. She accepted his embrace and buried her head against his chest. The tears fell harder, faster, more freely. Joseph said nothing, just held her tightly. Minutes passed uncounted. Finally there was a timid knock at the door. Joseph looked down at Clarisse as she pulled away at the sound of the knock. "Who…?" she asked, her voice muffled by her tears.

"Just a moment," Joseph called towards the door. He led Clarisse towards the sofa. When she was seated and was dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief, Joseph crossed the room and opened the door.

Charlotte's tear-stained face peered up at him. "Robert called," she spoke softly. "He made it down to the...King Rupert, and the coast guard is on the way. He…confirmed…" she trailed off, looking around Joseph's shoulder to the Queen, who leaned forward on the sofa, her head in her hands. "What can I do to help?" Charlotte asked.

"Keep fielding the calls. Keep as many people as possible away from here. Do you know how to get in touch with the princes?" Joseph kept his voice low.

"I'll find out and give you the information," Charlotte promised, then stepped back, allowing Joseph to close the door once again.

When Joseph turned back to Clarisse, she was standing. Her hands were knotted tightly in front of her. "I have to call my children," she said stiffly. The prospect of those calls appeared to terrified her. Joseph would have encouraged her to wait, but knew that news of the event would hit the media at any moment.

He nodded. "Would you like me to leave, Your Majesty?"

"No," she said simply and walked back to her desk. Placing her palms flat on the wooden expanse, she leaned forward slightly and drew in a deep breath. When she picked up the phone and asked Charlotte to connect her with Pierre in Rome, her voice would have sounded almost normal to someone who didn't know her as well as Joseph.

The call went through. Clarisse greeted her son somewhat distantly, then began to tell him the reason for her call. "Pierre, I – I have…" The phone cord twisted between her fingers. She hesitated, then tried again. "Your father…" Her voice choked. Joseph stood up from the chair where he was seated across from her. He walked around behind the desk and gently took the phone from her hand.

Quietly and succinctly he broke the news to the prince that his father was dead. As he spoke he leaned a hip on the Queen's desk and reached for her hand again. His thumb smoothed over the skin of her fingers as she wept silently. When he handed her the phone again, she spoke briefly to her son, offering and accepting comfort and asking when he would return to be by her side.

The call to Philippe was similarly handled. By the time Clarisse hung up after bidding her youngest son a swift journey home, there was another knock at the door. Joseph looked solicitously at his Queen and she nodded, indicating he should open it.

Thus started a long procession of official visitors and condolence calls. Charlotte and Joseph both did their best to protect Clarisse's privacy and give her room to breathe and grieve, but there was little they could do. Within hours, the press secretary had scheduled a live statement for the Queen to make to the media to notify the country of the death of their King.

Joseph was present during the meeting and stepped outside the bounds of security guard to strongly suggest that someone besides the Queen ought to make that announcement. This earned him a condescending look and summary dismissal from the press secretary, a nod of agreement from Charlotte and a warm look that was almost a smile from the Queen.

"_She's the Queen, Joseph."_

"_She's a human being, Rudy! And her husband has just died!"_

Despite his protest, the press conference was arranged as the secretary instructed. The Queen sat almost disinterestedly through the meeting, her vacant stare focused on the intricate pattern in the sleek wood of the immense conference table. Her staff seemed unsure of how to approach her, speaking around and through her, rather than to her. Finally the details were arranged and the Queen acquiesced to her role in the proceedings. Joseph could only watch from the sidelines, not sure of what to feel, but sure that his Queen – his friend – needed friends at her side. He knew she could stand on her own, tall and true, and meet what duty required of her. But when finally left alone to her thoughts and her grief, then she would fall.

He wanted to be there to catch her.

Queen Clarisse completed the statement in an admirably stoic fashion. The country began an official period of mourning as she stepped down from the podium. The lights were extinguished and the cameras stopped rolling. It was almost 8:00 p.m. She'd been a widow for nearly nine hours.

She'd also not had anything to eat since breakfast and no space or freedom to sit and absorb the events of the day. Her life had taken a sharp and violent turn. She walked blindly out of the room and turned towards her office, stopping only when she felt a firm grip on her elbow.

Joseph had stepped up from behind her and pulled her to a stop. She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You need to rest, Your Majesty."

His voice was warm and solicitous. She gestured back towards her office, intending to argue that she was needed there, but there was nothing she could think of to say. Grief and care shone in Joseph's eyes. Looking at those eyes was what did it. She couldn't hold her emotions inside when he looked at her like that.

Joseph bowed slightly and indicated for her to head towards her rooms.

"Please?" he asked softly.

She took a breath – ragged and tinged with unshed tears – and walked in front of him in the direction he indicated. Her carriage was as straight and sure as ever, but Joseph sensed a rigidity about her rather than the smooth elegance that usually characterized her movements.

When they reached her suite, she went inside without even acknowledging the footman on duty. Joseph stopped cold at the doorway. He had no idea of how to proceed. Should he follow? Or leave her to her solitude? The footman shifted, trying to get some indication whether or not he should close the door. He cleared his throat softly and Joseph locked eyes with him. Neither knew what they should do. The light tinkling sound of a teacup shattering broke through the haze of indecision.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he stepped through the doorway, indicating that he footman should close it behind him.

She didn't answer. She was kneeling next to the broken cup, trying to pick up the pieces. He reached down and took her elbow, drawing her to her feet.

"Please let me," he said.

"I can do it," she hissed, yanking her arm from his grasp.

Joseph bit the inside of his cheek. He was deep in uncharted waters here and sailing fast. Clarisse was again gathering china. He reached over her and picked up a small tea towel from the service and then laid it on the floor next to the broken pieces. He moved the pile she had collected to the towel and helped her gather the remaining slivers. Neither spoke.

When they had gathered the remains in the towel he stood up and crossed the room to dump them into the waste basket. Clarisse picked up the teapot, and tried to pour, but the china rattled as she brought pot and cup together. She all but slammed the teapot down again on the tray. "I can't even pour myself a cup of tea?" she asked aloud. "Pathetic."

"Understandable," Joseph replied. She glanced over at him, her expression surprised, as if she'd already forgotten he was there. "Please let me help you, Clarisse."

"I'm alright. I don't need any help." As she spoke she turned away from him and made her way over to her writing desk, where she picked up a stack of what appeared to be personal correspondence and began to flip through the letters. Joseph poured her a cup of tea. The maids, evidently aware that the Queen had not taken any meals all day, left a tray of sandwiches and sweets, along with the tea. Joseph prepared her a small plate of food. He sat the items on the coffee table in front of her sofa, then crossed the room to the desk.

Clarisse paid him no attention, still perusing her letters with unseeing eyes. He reached up and took them from her hand. She glared at him.

"I know you don't need any help," he said, forestalling her complaint. "But please, let me help you anyway. It'll make me feel better, if nothing else." As he spoke, he pulled her over to the sofa. She sighed and took a sandwich from the plate he held out to her.

Clarisse peeled away the bread slightly to reveal watercress and cucumber. Her expression resigned, she bit into it. "Why is it," she said as she swallowed the morsel, "that it's _always_ cucumber? Always?"

Joseph was glad of a safe topic for conversation. "And what's wrong with cucumber?" he asked.

"Have you ever eaten a cucumber sandwich?"

"Well, no," he admitted.

"They're terribly boring. No real taste." Despite her protest, she finished the first sandwich and reached for another. Joseph poured himself a cup of coffee. Clarisse indicated he should join her on the sofa. She offered him a cookie which he popped into his mouth, whole. She smiled at him and shook her head.

Conversation was kept at a minimum and neither seemed uncomfortable with the silences that drug out between them. Clarisse was still lost in her thoughts, but just having someone there beside her helped. He didn't push her to think or even to feel. He was just there. Clarisse was surprised by how comforting that was.

Eventually, the two of them had polished off the last of the food and Clarisse was well into her second cup of tea. "I am so tired," she sighed.

"I know," Joseph answered. "Why don't you lie down?"

"No. Pierre will be here soon and I want to see him when he arrives."

Joseph sighed exasperatedly. "Give me your feet," he demanded.

"I beg your pardon?" Her eyebrow arched its way towards her hairline.

"Put you feet up here." Joseph patted the sofa next to him. "If you won't go lie down, you can at least relax here for a while until Prince Pierre arrives." She finally did as he asked and even slouched down a bit into the overstuffed cushions as she turned on her side and got comfortable.

"Will you stay with me?" she asked quietly, her eyes closed.

"Of course," he replied. "I'm sure Pierre will be here soon." Within a few short minutes her breathing slowed and she was sleeping.

Joseph sat in silence with her, listening to the ticking of the clock on the mantel, watching the incessant crawl of the minute hand. Eventually the warmth of the room and the sound of her breathing lulled him into sleep as well.

Immediately, or so it seemed, he was awakened by a hand on his shoulder and someone quietly calling his name. He blinked into wakefulness and looked up into the face of Pierre Renaldi. "Joseph? How is she?" he whispered.

Joseph looked down, aghast to find he was holding his monarch's feet in his lap as she slept peacefully beside him. He started to move, but stopped by the hand gripping his shoulder. "Don't wake her up," Pierre whispered. "I'm glad you're here. I was afraid she would be alone."

"What time is it?" Joseph asked as he rubbed his eyes.

"After midnight," was Pierre's reply.

Clarisse stirred and slowly opened her own eyes to find two pair of worried eyes looking down at her intently. She pulled herself upright. "Pierre! Oh, Darling, I'm so glad to see you."

Pierre came around to the front of the couch as she rose to her feet. As he allowed himself to be swept into her waiting arms, Pierre noticed Joseph quietly heading for the door. He caught the other man's eye and mouthed a silent 'Thank you'. Joseph nodded solemnly in response and slipped out of the door, shutting it softly behind him.


	18. Chapter 18

The first month following the burial of King Rupert had been a long one. Charlotte had spent long hours handling calls and coordinating condolence visits from various dignitaries and members of Parliament. Joseph had been busy with security chores related to all the unexpected high-level visitors to the palace as well as his normal duties. The Queen worked to find the best way to rule on her own.

There was an official thirty day period of mourning for the government, following the death of a monarch. Tradition decreed it, and the usefulness of having a month to try to sort through the business of one leader and transition to the rule of the next keep the tradition in place. On the thirty-first day following the death of the King, Parliament met in a special session.

The purpose had been clear – to determine the demands of the country in regards to its next monarch. The session was draped in layers of ceremony and ritual. Clarisse remembered the similar session held after the death of her father-in-law. It seemed that one thing Parliament excelled at was ostentatious mourning, and she dreaded sitting through what was certain to be a long, drawn out ordeal.

The Queen entered the parliament chamber after the members were in place. Clothed from head to toe in black, she was somber, yet unmistakably regal. The session droned on interminably as the various members read their speeches of condolence into the record. Clarisse managed to look properly concerned and appreciative of each one, no matter how repetitive and ill-conceived.

Once the speeches were concluded parliament moved on to the business of succession. Pierre's abdication had been ratified prior to Rupert's death. He no longer had any sort of claim to the throne. That left Philippe. The Viscount Mabry made a motion that proceedings be tabled until the Crown Prince was in attendance and questioned the judgment of the Crown in allowing His Highness to leave the country at such a time. Were the Renaldi's no more interested in their duty to Genovia than this?

Clarisse leaned forward, signaling the Prime Minister that she wished to address the issue. Her speech quelled the rumble of discontent that had spread across the chamber in response to the Viscount's motion. After taking another opportunity to thank the august body for it's out-pouring of sympathy, she explained that her son had returned to America at her request. Philippe's education was incomplete. He was ready, willing and able to be King – wanted to be King – but he was not yet fully prepared. Clarisse waxed eloquent about the history and tradition of Genovia – upheld and protected by an outstanding monarchy that all Genovians could take pride in. She knew Philippe would be a wonderful King and would guide Genovia through the remainder of the 20th century and beyond with a steady hand, balanced leadership and a strong vision for the future. The members of parliament were among the few members of the citizenry that fully understood what a difficult task they had placed before young Philippe. The Queen was certain that history would recognize their wisdom in allowing their Crown Prince to complete his education and term of military service prior to being made King.

The Viscount, never willing to comply with the wishes of the Queen, jumped to the microphone to respond as soon as Her Majesty sat down. Perhaps Her Majesty hadn't taken into consideration the fact that Genovia would be ruled by only a woman during the intervening years until her son could be crowned. Genovia had a proud history of stately Queens, but it had never been ruled by a woman alone. Never. It just wasn't done.

Her Majesty responded with an icy request that the Viscount put his objection into the form of a motion that could be voted on by the floor. She felt certain that the wives and daughters of Genovia were entitled to read in newspapers and history books of the courageous parliament that had voted down such a backwards and egregious affront to the rights of all its citizens.

Parliament responded with thunderous applause and when the Queen made her request to postpone the crowning of the new King until such time as he was ready to take the throne, her motion passed with a firm majority.

And so it was that a subdued, yet triumphant, Clarisse Renaldi exited the Genovian Parliament as the first sole female monarch in the country's history.

Joseph witnessed the historic session from his post just below and behind the dais where the Queen and Prime Minister were seated. Only just managing to keep a huge grin from breaking his features as he witnessed Clarisse make history, Joseph kept a close eye on Mabry. The Viscount's dislike of the Queen was palpable, even from across the room. Alarm bells were sounding in Joseph's head. Mabry wasn't just a disgruntled politician who'd been thwarted by the majority. This was obviously personal.

Following the session, Clarisse spent the rest of the day in her office, churning out paperwork. Long into the evening, Joseph returned from his final check with the perimeter guards. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and his mid-day meal consisted of a cup of coffee and a pear he filched off of Charlotte's lunch tray.

If he knew the Queen, and he did, her lunch hadn't been any better than his. He checked the monitor again and verified her location. Within moments he was standing at the open door of her office. Charlotte's desk was as tidy as ever and had probably only recently been abandoned for the day, despite the late hour. He could see Clarisse, leaning over the paperwork she was trying to read and resting her head in one hand, removing her reading glasses with the other.

"You should get some rest, Your Majesty." Concern sounded in Joseph's husky voice.

Clarisse didn't look up. She didn't respond. Her eyes were closed.

"Clarisse?" he asked as he stepped into the room. She didn't even look up when she spoke. He wasn't really sure if she knew he was there or not.

Joseph moved closer to her, coming to stand beside her chair. She hadn't opened her eyes, but she could feel him next to her. Then the soft weight of a warm hand on her back caused her to open her eyes and she looked to the side into the face of her friend. He'd knelt beside her, lowering his face to her level.

"You don't have to finish all of this tonight, Your Majesty."

She tried to smile at him, but failed miserably. He began to pull her chair back from the desk. Giving in, she leaned back into the soft leather. Joseph still knelt at her side.

"You're exhausted and in no shape to be trying to work right now. Why don't we get out of here and go relax somewhere?"

She shook her head. "I can't. I just can't. There is so much to do."

"You won't get any of it done tonight," he said. She started to protest, but her cut her off. "Come with me." He stood and held a hand out to her. Clarisse didn't move, simply sighed heavily and seemed to be looking past him.

"What am I going to do, Joseph? I can't do this on my own. Pierre can't help me and Philippe isn't ready to help me." Her voice was soft, almost lost.

Joseph reached down and took both her hands. He looked directly into her eyes, forcing her to focus on his face. His voice was huskier than normal when he spoke. "You can do it, Clarisse. You are the strongest, most capable woman I know. And you don't have to be alone – not if you don't want to be. I will always, always be here for you."

"Thank you, Joseph," she whispered. "You have always been a wonderful friend to me."

Joseph pulled her to her feet. "Always." She nodded, her eyes slightly cloudy as she gazed at his face, his lips. She felt her body leaning closer to him, giving in to the magnetic pull she'd always felt when he was close.

"Joseph…we have to talk," she heard herself say. She pulled away. The tea service was a safe distance across the room and gave her something to do with her hands.

Joseph watched her move away and asked, "What do we have to talk about?"

"About where we go from here." She kept her eyes on the teaspoon she swirled in the cup.

"Ah," he said softly. After a moment of silence, he chuckled. "From here we go down to the kitchen and find something to eat Your Majesty."

She looked at him reproachfully. "Please be serious Joseph. We – I – can't--."

"I _am_ serious, Clarisse. What I mean is this: I know you are in a position of considerable stress. Mabry and his cronies will make sure that every thing you do is questioned and scrutinized. The press loves you, but they'll be watching every move you make. You cannot afford to jeopardize the succession by doing anything wrong – you can't afford a mistake."

Clarisse nodded. "I cannot afford to be suspected of anything… inappropriate."

"Such as having an affair with the help," Joseph said lightly, trying to belay the pain in his heart.

She reached out and placed a hand on his cheek. "Maybe I haven't made myself clear before now, Joseph. You would never, never be just…an affair. Just like you will never be only 'the help'."

Joseph smiled at her, even as her hand fell away. "Perhaps you know that and I know that, but the country doesn't know that and Parliament would never believe it."

She chuckled softly. "Yes, there are those who would love nothing better than to use anything they can get against me in order to usurp the throne."

"_Your_ throne."

"For now, yes." A smiled curled the corners of her mouth.

"Just remember, Your Majesty, I'll be close by. Always just a step behind." He bowed slightly and placed a chaste kiss on her the back of her hand. When he pulled away he winked at her. "How about dinner?"

_________________________________________________________________

Clarisse was watching Joseph. For a change.

The ball at the Genovian embassy in London marked the end of her first official trip outside the country since the death of King Rupert. Half a year had passed since she had become the sole monarch of her country. Although she felt great relief at all that had been accomplished so far, her personal life would be seriously curtailed and structured for the foreseeable future. Genovia would not allow her to step down from her public duty for years to come. Not until Philippe was ready to rule.

Other changes had taken place as well, including Joseph's promotion to Head of Security. Robert had intended to retire soon anyway, and the death of his sovereign had hastened his decision. Joseph slid smoothly into the job and continued to act as the Queen's body guard.

Life had settled into a predictable, albeit sometimes excruciating routing for the Queen. Work, work, eat, work, try to sleep, fail at that, and work some more.

Clarisse herself was sure she would have gone crazy by now if it weren't for Joseph and Charlotte keeping such a close eye on her as well as Pierre's quiet solicitude in his frequent phone calls and occasional visits. Philippe was back in America, not as easy to contact as his brother. Although both her sons tried to keep tabs on her as best they could, it wasn't the same as being there.

Joseph, especially, took his care of the Queen seriously. He was the only person who could talk her into quitting work and taking meals. Clarisse suspected that Charlotte often called him when she thought the work load was getting to be too much and Joseph would magically appear to spirit Clarisse away to her garden or for a long drive along the shore.

He restored her sanity in these quiet moments. He listened to her. He talked to her. To her. Not to 'The Queen', but to Clarisse. It was a distinction very few people in her life had mastered, yet it seemed to come naturally to Joseph.

Clarisse pondered all of this as she watched Joseph float around the ballroom in the arms of another blonde. He was technically off duty. She'd insisted he let someone else guard her for the evening and asked a special favor of him. Charlotte deserved a night off as much as he did. She asked Joseph to escort Charlotte to the ball.

He'd appeared surprised, and perhaps amused, by the suggestion, but he agreed readily enough. They both appeared to be having a good time. Maybe there was a future for the two of them. Certainly Joseph was older, but sometimes May-December romances could be the sweetest for both. Charlotte deserved a good man and Joseph… Joseph deserved… She couldn't seem to finish the thought.

Clarisse looked down into the glass of champagne that she held. She knew full well what Joseph deserved – a wife, a family, someone to love and come home to. As much as she wanted that for him, she feared it as well. A wife and family would come first. They would have to come between Joseph and her and that would stifle their friendship. Clarisse was fully aware of just how much she'd come to depend on him and how much his friendship meant to her. She knew she would be willing to give it up in order for Joseph to find happiness, but that didn't stop her from dreading the thought of life without him.

She swirled the bubbling liquid and started to bring the glass up to her lips. As she raised her head to drink, she came eye to eye with her friend, standing before her.

"Your Majesty," he said formally but his voice betrayed a hint of amusement. His white-gloved hands were clasped in front of him, medals shinning on the chest of his dress uniform and the decorative sword hanging at his side caught the light. His eyes shined just as brightly. It was only on extremely rare occasions that Joseph donned the uniform of the Genovian Armed Forces, of which he was technically a Commander, given his position as Head of Security. Clarisse had always loved the grey and purple dress uniform, and it's tightly tailored lines were set off to distinction by the hard, compact planes of Joseph's body. He clicked the heels of his highly polished boots.

"Joseph," she answered, equally formally, lifting her glass in greeting.

"Have I done my duty?" he asked.

"Which duty?" she queried.

"Charlotte and I have danced six times together. I've complimented her dress and appearance several times – she really is quite lovely this evening, don't you think? And I've introduced her to several of my friends and acquaintances." His smile grew as he spoke. "She's been a valiantly cheerful companion, putting up with me for as long as possible, but I have finally released her and I believe she is at this very moment pursing the true object of her affections, my second in command. So, do you want to explain your reasons for this foray into the wild world of matchmaking?"

Clarisse smiled demurely and looked away. She cleared her throat and took another sip of champagne before meeting his eyes. "That obvious, was it?"

"Oh yes. But very touching, I might ad."

Clarisse made a dismissive gesture with her hand and tried to explain. "You've both been so wonderful – always, but especially these last few months. Neither of you seem to have any sort of a personal life," she chided. "You're both always working. So, I thought perhaps you could…find happiness together." She smiled gamely at him and shrugged her shoulders.

Joseph laughed out loud, drawing the attention of several couples next to them. He took Clarisse by the elbow and led her outside onto the terrace. When they were alone, he turned her to face him and looked deeply into her questioning blue eyes.

"I can't speak for Charlotte, but I'm very happy just where I am, doing just what I'm doing," he told her.

"What, exactly, are you doing?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Joseph placed his hands on her shoulders and took a step closer. "Falling in love with you," he murmured. He held her eyes a second longer, then captured her lips with his, cutting off any reply.

Clarisse gasped and almost fell away from him, but he wrapped her body in his embrace and refused to let her pull away. She tired to speak, to say something, anything, but when she opened her mouth against his, he took full advantage of the opportunity. His tongue spoke of fire and desire as it traveled her mouth, searching for its counterpart.

She raised her hands to his chest, intending to push him away, but her body refused to cooperate. Her mind screamed in protest, but her body had already surrendered.

Hearing approaching voices, Joseph pulled away abruptly and stepped back two paces. Clarisse stumbled slightly when he moved, but caught hold of the edge of a table. Joseph raised an eyebrow and gave her a cocky grin. "Resistance is futile," he growled in an almost comical voice.

The ballroom doors opened and a small group of people spilled out onto the terrace with them. One of the revelers was wife of the French Ambassador, a woman who had been a frequent guest at the Genovian palace over the years. Clarisse recognized her as someone Rupert had spent a lot of time with at various functions. No doubt she was one of his many conquests. The woman eyed the Queen and her bodyguard speculatively.

"Good evening, Your Majesty. It's so nice to see you again. And can I say how impressed I am with your security guard. Having the servants dress for the occasion is a very classy gesture. But could we expect less from Queen Clarisse?" the woman's voice was almost simpering.

Clarisse had gathered her regal bearing around her like a protective cloak while the woman spoke. She eyed the woman coldly. "Thank you, I'm sure. Are you a member of the staff here?" she asked with perfectly assumed innocence.

"Staff? Absolutely not!" The woman was caught off guard and the members of her group were now paying full attention to the scene before them. "I'm Suzette Arceneau, wife of Ambassador Arceneau!"

"Wife?" Clarisse asked with just the right touch of shock. "But surely… " She turned to Joseph and stage whispered, "I thought the brunette with the huge – I thought the ambassador's wife was a brunette!" Joseph shrugged. "No matter," Clarisse continued, turning a high wattage smile back to Suzette. "It was lovely to see you again as well," she said in a flat, disinterested voice, obviously waiting on the other woman to courtesy. The tension held for just a moment before the woman realized she been bested and dropped into a reluctant bow. Without another word, Clarisse swept past the group and back into the ballroom.

"Magnificent, Your Majesty," Joseph whispered, holding the door for her. She grinned at him as she swept past. They paused on the edge of the dance floor. Joseph held out a hand to her. She accepted it with a slight bow. Joseph bowed in return and they stepped into the flow of the music.

Neither noticed the eyes of many in the crowd who followed them around the room. The elegant queen in her dark red ball gown moving in such perfect grace with the handsome cavalier was hard to ignore. Some of the women present, not knowing who Joseph was, made plans for approaching him later to try their hand at a bit of seduction. Others either recognized the guard or wisely realized that when a man looks at a woman the way he was looking at the Queen, there is no use wasting time trying to draw his attention away.

As the dance ended, Joseph leaned a little closer to her ear and whispered, "Thirsty?"

She swallowed as the feel of his breath on her ear the husky tone he used sent an unbidden shiver down her spine. "A little," she managed to answer. Joseph led her to the side of the dance floor and went off in search of champagne.

Clarisse didn't notice Arthur Mabrey standing in the background. He was a member of the diplomatic delegation that had accompanied the Queen on this trip. Clarisse watched the couples still gliding around the floor. Mabrey slid his considerable girth up close to the Queen. He leaned in over her shoulder and spoke, "Lovely ball, I must say, your Majesty."

Clarisse started at the sound of the man's deep baritone. She recovered, but did not turn to face him. "Indeed it is, Viscount," she said simply.

Mabrey slid around to her side, not making eye contact, ostensibly as interested as she in the whirling dancers. "It is good to see you back in society again, my Queen. You are such a wonderful dancer – always a joy to observe."

She raised a speculative eyebrow in his direction. "Thank you, Arthur."

"My heart breaks, however, that your subjects are no longer able to enjoy the sight of you dancing with our beloved King Rupert." Mabrey's face was the very picture of restrained grief. "Although, I see you have found a…substitute."

Clarisse glanced sharply at him, but he wore a mask of impassivity that was impossible to read. She chose not to answer.

"I've been intending to come to the palace and talk with you, Your Majesty," Mabrey continued. "There were some personal papers that King Rupert was supposed to return to me that I have yet to receive. I've requested them from your assistant on several occasions without success. I was wondering –"

"Rupert's papers have been put in order, Viscount," Clarisse said somewhat sharply. "If you've received nothing from his office, there was nothing to send."

"I'm sure that is the case. The Crown's staff is always efficient to a fault, it's true. However, these papers were of a personal nature and his Majesty would probably not have even bothered to store them in his office. They don't have any real value – except to me. I provided his Majesty some of my old family papers for some research he was doing into heraldry. Not terribly important, but those documents are irreplaceable. What I wished was to ask to impose on your hospitality by allowing me to check his Majesty's rooms – his private study, perhaps – to try to retrieve them." Mabrey's smile was politeness itself, but his gaze left Clarisse cold.

"First it was access to Rupert's private papers because you were putting together some sort of retrospective for the Royal Museum. Then you needed your aide to spend time researching in Rupert's private library to help you come up with something you needed for your parliamentary committee. Now this. I don't know what you're after Arthur, but Joseph told me he caught you snooping around the private floors the last time you were at the palace. I'm tired of your games. If you try something like that again, I'll have your security clearance revoked," Clarisse said. "Good luck taking your seat in Parliament when you can't even get access to the building."

The Viscount noticeably reddened. "That was simply a misunderstanding on Mr. Romero's part," he said through clenched teeth.

"Rupert's suite and study have been gone over by both the staff and myself. It there had been anything there belonging to you, it would have been returned. I'm sorry," she steeled herself, noting that Joseph was coming back towards them with a champagne flute. "I'm not inclined to let anyone rifle through my husband's belongings. Anyone," she repeated firmly as Joseph reached her side.

Mabrey glared at the two of them, then bowed before turning to weave his way back through the crowd.

"What did he want?" Joseph asked, still scowling at the back of the retreating form.

"He claims Rupert left some sort of papers or something that belongs to him. He wants to search Rupert's suite and offices for them." She turned away, dismissing the man from her thoughts, anxious to rid herself of the uneasiness that accompanied her whenever she encountered the Viscount. "I told him no."

"Good," Joseph said firmly. "I don't like having him near you."

"Spoken like a jealous man," Clarisse smiled up at him.

"Or a competent security guard," he replied, grinning at her.

"Competent doesn't even begin to describe you, Joseph," she flirted shamelessly. Unable to continue to hold his gaze – the intensity there was almost overwhelming – she lowered her eyes and sipped her champagne.

"More dancing, Your Majesty?" he asked a few moments later, offering her his arm.

She nodded and they made their way back out onto the floor.

Neither spoke during that dance or the next. As the music changed to a much slower waltz, Clarisse leaned forward slightly and whispered into his ear, "I don't want to be here anymore."

"I can certainly help you with that," he replied and began to steer them towards an exit. Clarisse caught the eye of the Ambassador. He came towards the two as they stepped off the dance floor. Clarisse made her formal good-bye and then left the ball room, headed for her guest suite on an upper floor.

Joseph followed in her wake, whispered briefly with Shades and allowed him to excuse most of the Queen's personal security for the rest of the evening. Seeing Charlotte hovering near-by, Joseph lowered his voice further and addressed the younger man. "I think Charlotte would like very much to dance with you. I've had my fun; I'll take over your shift with her Majesty. Why don't you enjoy yourself for the rest of the evening?"

Scott glanced quickly at the tawny blonde a few feet away. "Thanks, Joe! You're the best!" he gushed.

"The sacrifices I make for my friends," he muttered good naturedly as he turned his attention back to Clarisse and followed her upstairs.

When they reached her rooms, Joseph held the door and allowed her to precede him inside. Her gown rustled softly as she moved past him. "Please come in," she asked softly.

Once inside, Clarisse went to the bar and poured them both a drink – scotch on the rocks for him and a white wine for herself. Joseph noted that she didn't have to ask what he wanted, she knew his preference. There was something comfortingly intimate in the knowledge that she had paid enough attention to know what he liked.

He could feel heat rising above his collar as he realized she now knew even more about what he "liked" for lack of a better term. Something about being alone with Clarisse in this intimate setting undermined his confidence. Maybe this hadn't been the right time to tell her how he felt. The moment felt right downstairs when he told her he was in love with her, but now, alone with her like this, no barriers between them, he felt embarrassed and unsure.

Clarisse hadn't spoken, but instead handed him his glass and indicated he should sit on the couch. She watched him for just a moment as she sipped her wine, then sat down beside him.

"You're happy, Joseph? Really?" she finally asked him, referencing their earlier conversation.

"Yes." He looked up from his glass and met her frank gaze. He was almost trembling with nervousness, but there was no going back. "You make me happy."

"I envy that happiness." Clarisse sighed and dropped her eyes. After a moment she continued. "Everything I've ever achieved was just dropped into my lap. I really didn't have a choice about the things I've done. I'm proud of the accomplishments, but there are many places I can imagine myself being or things I wish I had been able to do that would have made me happier." She paused for a moment, "But I do have to agree with you on one thing. You make me happy, too." She smiled at him.

"Thank you," he said, relaxing just a little and raising his glass to her. "So where does all this happiness leave us?"

"Wanting more, I imagine," she whispered, looking down into the swirling wine in the glass she held.

He didn't reply.

"I can't give you more." Her voice was still soft, but there was a husky edge to it.

Joseph threw back the remainder of his drink. He watched her continue to stare desolately into the drink warming in her hands. "What are you worried about?" His voice held a hint of challenge.

She laughed sharply. "What aren't I worried about? You deserve more, so much more, than what I can give you, Joseph. I don't have any right to hold on to you. You should have a home and family of your own. You…you shouldn't wait for me."

Joseph set his glass down on the coffee table, rather forcefully. She jumped at the sound. He reached out and closed his hands around her glass, pulling it from her grasp. It joined his on the table. He took her hands in his.

"Look at me, Clarisse," he said softly. She rather dutifully raised her eyes to his. "Don't you think I should be the one to decide what is best for me? Worry about yourself, Clarisse. Worry about your children. Worry about Genovia. But don't ever worry about me." He reached up and took her face in his hands. His thumbs ran lightly over the silky skin of her lips. She closed her eyes in response, luxuriating in the feel. Just as she arched towards him, he leaned in and touched his mouth to hers.

There seemed to be a warm glow of perfect understanding between them then. The kiss was tender and poignant. When they slowly parted, Joseph looked down into her sparkling blue eyes. "I love you Clarisse. I don't even know when I first fell in love with you but it grows stronger every day."

"I can't afford to fall in love with you, Joseph. I can't."

Confident once again, after what he'd felt in her kiss, he said, "It's too late Clarisse."

"I can't," she repeated. Her eyes wandered down his face to his lips.

"I think you already did," he said and clamped his mouth down on hers. This time his kiss was demanding, forceful. With nothing more than a kiss he was forcing her to confront the reality of her deepest emotions. He forced her to feel what she kept buried and to peer into what she kept hidden.

When they finally broke apart, she slumped back against the couch cushions, her breath coming in quick, hot gasps. She tried to be angry. It was the only piece of the emotional walls she'd erected that she could still cling to.

"You bastard!" she gasped at him. Her hand stole to her swollen lips and she tried very hard to glare at him.

Joseph merely shrugged and licked his lips. He leaned back against the opposite side of the couch, his chest heaving as he drew breath.

"I suppose you ought to have me hung," he drawled at last, once their breathing had slowed.

Her eyes were flashing, but whether from anger or desire, he couldn't tell. Neither could she. "If I don't have you hung, do you promise not to do that again?" Her voice was shaky.

"No."

"Bastard," she said again, but there was no strength behind it. She stood up and moved towards the window and looked out on the dimly lit grounds below. She didn't hear him approach, but within moments strong arms slid around her waist from behind. "Stop –."

"I can't," he whispered, his breath warm and moist on her neck. Her knees almost buckled at the delicious jolt of feeling this sent down her spine. "I am so in love with you, Clarisse."

He felt her tense, could almost hear the denials that were about to pour out of her mouth. "Shh," he whispered again. He pressed his body lightly against hers, reveling in the quiet sigh that escaped her lips as she leaned back slightly towards him. He gripped her even more tightly to him.

Still speaking softly against the velvety skin of her neck, he made his case. "I know how you feel. It's written in the depths of your eyes. You cannot deny it. You need me and I need you. Trust me, Clarisse. I understand that I'm not the only one who needs you. I know that we can't be together for the foreseeable future and I won't push you into anything that you don't want. I will wait for you. There is no one else for me and there can never be anyone else. Do you understand?"

She couldn't speak, simply nodded her head. He turned her around and found her lips with his own, pressing them with another devastating kiss. Their bodies connected and all too quickly he had to pull away or his self-control would disintegrate completely. He desperately wanted to ravish her then and there, against the window if necessary. He had to get away or there would be no stopping.

She was shaking as she looked up at him, her hands resting against the hardened muscles of his upper arms. Her eyes were wide and searched his with a heated desperation.

What's the matter, Clarisse?" he asked softly. "You're shaking."

"I can't h-help it," she admitted. "I don't know why."

He smiled down at her. "There's nothing to be afraid of – it's only love."

"Love?" she whispered nervously. "I've kissed you before. Why does it frighten me so badly this time?"

"That was lust. This is love."

"Lust?" She favored him with a good natured glare. "I will have you know, a Queen never lusts."

He ran a finger down the line of her jaw to the hollow of her neck. "Liar."

She laughed at that, marveling at how easily he had driven the fears from her mind. He studied her, drowning in the blue depths of her eyes. He could see understanding there - maybe even acceptance - mingled with the heat of her desire.

"I don't deserve you, Joseph," she said at last.

"You deserve to be loved, Clarisse. Loved, adored, cherished." He touched her face, trailing his hand down her neck, her shoulder, her arm, before taking her hand and pressing a burning kiss to her fingers. "Someday, Clarisse."

Then he was gone.

The room was empty, save for the lingering presence of his cologne. She made here way back across to the sofa and sank slowly into its soft embrace. Her lips felt hot and raw from his kisses. Her body burned for his touch. She reached out and picked up his whiskey glass. Placing her lips over the spot where he drank, she took the remaining liquid fire into her mouth. It burned all the way down, competing with the warmth her body produced on its own.


	19. Chapter 19

She screamed his name. In her wildest dreams she'd imagined screaming his name but never like this.

Conscious thought was almost impossible for her now. But at some level, deep in her subconscious, everything was being processed.

She was well aware of what his job entailed – it placed him in danger of death, more so than herself, she'd always thought. If she were ever confronted with danger, her job was to escape, to live. His job was to provide a way for her to do that. She knew full well that meant he would unhesitatingly throw himself in harm's way to provide for her survival. She accepted this as a constant, horrific possibility.

Clarisse didn't know that a concussion grenade had exploded behind the podium as she made a speech at the closing ceremonies of the festival in Pyrus. She only knew the force of the blast threw her to the ground and the sound of the blast temporarily robbed her of her hearing. She was confused, disoriented and terrified.

Then she felt his touch. She knew instinctively that is was him. There was no questioning his silent urging, she simply obeyed.

He pulled her to her feet, holding her body intimately to his own as they ran towards safety. He wouldn't even have to think about where to take her. It had all been planned and decided prior to the event in all those interminable security meetings he always insisted on. There were safe areas and he would take her there. And that is exactly what he did.

But that was the problem –that's where everything changed. They were waiting for her before they made it to the rendezvous point. The guards that should have met them as the exited out the back had been shot dead during the blast, leaving Joseph alone, and unable to advance.

Still his purpose remained unchanged. He fought ferociously to protect her. There was a desperate hope that the security forces would reach them in time – why weren't they already here?

He was overwhelmed by their numbers. Her perception of the situation began to change. Then someone got close enough to draw his blood. That was when she screamed his name. Several of their attackers lay bleeding when he was finally subdued.

Rough hands grabbed her and pulled her away from him. They held her arms behind her back, driving her hands up towards her shoulder blades, painfully immobilizing her. But that was all – she was molested no further. They had achieved their goal. She was helpless. Joseph had fallen.

Clarisse was dragged from the room. The men pulled her away, forcing her forward and away from Joseph. They reached a waiting automobile, where she was forced down to the floorboard in the back, hidden from view.

She hadn't heard the lid of the trunk on the back of the car open. But she heard it slam shut. Joseph was in the trunk, she realized. The men who had thrown Joseph into the back scrambled into the vehicle, their heavy boots barely missing her cringing body. As the car began to move, one of the men reached down and knotted a rough cord around her hands. As her attention was distracted by being bound, she didn't see the flash of steel as something was passed from the front seat to the back. Then, the steel, a hypodermic needled, was jabbed in her arm. She cried out at the sharp pain.

"No worries, Luv. Just a little something to make you sleep," one of the men said, not unkindly.

Her cramped position in the floorboard left her little room to breathe. She fought the effect of the drug as long as she could, but her breathing became shallow and rapid as panic threatened to overtake her. Within minutes the drug took effect and she slumped over against the leg of one of the men.

Some time later the car began to climb. They were now on some sort of country lane – the sound of the pavement was gone and the car bounced roughly over rutted gravel. The cramped position caused the Queen's lower back to throb, but she remained unaware.

The men in the car with her talked very little. There was the occasional grumble at the driver when they hit a particularly rough patch of road, but there was no small talk. Once, the man in the front passenger seat inquired as to the status of their captive.

"She's still breathing," the man who'd drugged Clarisse replied. "No tears, no begging. That'll come later, I expect." There were a couple of answering grunts and one laugh in response to that.

Eventually the car made a sharp turn to the left and continued uphill before stopping in a gravel driveway.

Doors opened and the boots exited the vehicle. Clarisse was vaguely aware of someone grabbing her beneath her arms and dragging her from the car. She knew nothing after that.


	20. Chapter 20

The voice in her ear spoke again, taunting her.

She didn't understand.

"Where? Where is the money? Where is it!?" The words barely penetrated to her conscious. It made no sense. The darkness overwhelmed her once more.

________________________________________________

The voices assaulted her again. Different voices this time. They urged her awake. She was lying on a bed; her hands free of the rope. All she wanted was to drift back into the silky unawareness of sleep, but she could feel their hands on her body as she was pulled up and onto her feet. Her eyes opened and she tried to focus, but swayed dangerously. One of the men caught her and held her upright. He slapped the side of her face lightly, trying to bring her around. She jerked away from him and almost fell.

"Come on, Luv, wake up," the man said. "If you can't walk, I'm going to have to carry you and neither of us is going to like that."

Her head began to clear and her eyes finally focused. She pushed his hands away and stood on her own. Taking a deep breath, she found her voice. "Where is Joseph?" She was surprised by how steady she sounded to her own ears.

"Would he be the man in black? We're taking you to see him right now, Luv." He stood and indicated the open door. "After you."

Clarisse glanced around and took another deep breath before trusting her feet to carry her out of the door. She was in a sumptuous bedroom. It was dark, but a lamp was lit by the bed. Once out of the room, she was in a darkened hallway. One of the men took her elbow and steered her towards a staircase, pushing her out ahead of them. Her head was pounding – an aftereffect of the drug, no doubt.

Going down the stairs played hell with her equilibrium. She was positively nauseous by the time they reached the first floor. Not given any time to rest, she was propelled to the back of what was evidently a huge manor house and into the kitchen. From there they found the basement stairs and descent began again. When they reached the bottom floor, Clarisse was directed across the room to a thick oak door. It was evidently the entrance to the wine cellar.

"What is going on?" she asked. "I demand you take me to Joseph and allow us to leave." The words sounded hollow even to her and the men just laughed. One of them stepped forward and rapped on the door.

It opened.

"Joseph!"

He looked up at her, relief flooding his features at the sight of his Queen – alive and relatively well. The same might not be said for him. He was on his knees in the middle of the room, hands clasped on top of his head. His face was bruised and blood was drying in the corner of his mouth and still seeping from a cut above his left eye. He looked like a prize fighter at the end of a 12 rounder.

"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" His speech was slightly slurred by his swollen lips. Clarisse nodded, her eyes clouded with concern. The man holding her arm prevented her from moving closer to Joseph.

"Your Majesty?" the man who'd called Clarisse 'Luv' asked. He looked into the back of the room. "Your Majesty? Just who did you have us kidnap, boss?"

There was a short laugh and the shadows at the back of the room moved. "Vincent, meet Clarisse Mignonette Gerard Renaldi, Queen of Genovia." Viscount Mabry stepped out into the dim light. "Welcome to my humble home, your Majesty."

"The Queen!? Damn it! You are gonna owe us extra for this one Mabry!" Vincent was obviously surprised. "You said she was an ambassador's wife and she'd be worth a decent ransom." He crossed the room and stood glaring down at he Viscount. "This changes everything. She's worth a lot more than our usual fee."

"Of course she is," Mabry agreed. He took a step back. "As soon as she tells us what we need to know, I will have plenty of money to give you. I promise it will be worth it!"

Clarisse had recovered her composure somewhat and glared malevolently at the Viscount. "What in God's name do you think you are doing, Arthur?"

"You have some information that I need, your Majesty," Mabry said, stepping around Vincent to stand before the Queen. "You haven't been particularly cooperative at the palace, so I decided perhaps we could talk more freely here." He smiled and swept his arm around the room.

Clarisse tried to pull herself free, but her captors held her fast. She looked past Mabry to Joseph and noted the look of pure hate that darkened his features as he eyed the Viscount. Clarisse was then also aware of the two men standing on either side of the room, guns trained on her bodyguard. There were two men holding her, in addition to the Viscount himself. There was little she or Joseph could do.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"When King Rupert died, he left behind a list of Swiss bank accounts where he hid our profits from the San Cayetano Casino Cartel. He cheated me out of a king's ransom. He stole my money and put it into those accounts. I need that information. I know he gave it to you. He sent me a letter before he died and said he had turned the information over to you. Get me those accounts and you and your lackey will be released without any further harm." Mabry spread his hands magnanimously. "Where are those numbers?"

Clarisse spoke slowly and succinctly. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Mabry regarded her for a moment, then turned to one of his henchmen and nodded once. The man stepped forward and handed his gun to Mabry. Mabry looked down his nose at Joseph as if studying a particularly stupid child.

"This is Kirk, Joseph. He is being paid to do a job. He's very good at it, and trust me when I tell you it's nothing personal. For him, that is. I can't say the same for myself." He grinned evilly. "If you move, while he's doing his job, or attempt to resist in any way, I will shoot the Queen." He turned back to Clarisse and ran his eyes over her body. "Probably in the leg." He laughed mirthlessly. "You and I both know I can't afford to kill her. So you decide if your resistance is worth her pain."

Clarisse made a sudden move towards Mabry, not really sure what she intended. She didn't even get a full step before the two men at her side jerked her arms and drove them painfully up behind her back. She cried out involuntarily.

"No!" Joseph shouted, but it was unclear if he was talking to Clarisse or Mabry.

Clarisse bit her lower lip, determined not to betray weakness again.

Mabry stepped out of the way to give Clarisse a clear view of the man on his knees in front of her. Her eyes met Joseph's and each could read anguish for the other in their gazes. Before either could speak, Kirk whipped his leg around and caught Joseph full in the gut. He made no cry, but she heard the grunt as the air was driven from his lungs.

Fists rained down, hard and fast. The other gunman holstered his weapon and grabbed Joseph's arms, driving them up into his spine like they had done with Clarisse.

Clarisse pleaded with them to stop. But they continued.

Joseph was soon battered and bloody. He was effectively immobilized and couldn't have fought back, even if he wanted to.

She struggled uselessly against her captors, doing nothing but causing the pain in her arms and shoulders to shoot up into her neck. Her eyes were riveted on Joseph. She paid no attention to the eyes that now ravished her writhing form. Those eyes briefly turned away from her and watched the man being beaten.

When he asked her the question the first time, he hadn't really expected an answer. Now, he grasped her upper arm, his hand tightening painfully around the jacket sleeve. Short, meaty fingers dug deep into the muscle beneath the skin, dragging her attention from the battered man before them. He forced her to look at him, to register what he was asking.

His face was inches from hers, his obsidian eyes bored malevolently into hers. "You can stop this," he said. "His life is in your hands. Where are those papers?"

She met his gaze, eyes blazing with anger. She wasn't afraid for herself but she felt the truth of his words – Joseph's fate rested with her and she had no idea how to save him. "Please stop this – I don't know what you're talking about. I can't help you." Her voice was raspy with emotion.

He drew a quick breath and tensed his arm, as if to strike her. Instead he stepped back and freed her line of sight to her protector. Joseph was still on his knees, but only remained upright because one of the men was holding him in place while Kirk continued the steady beating. He pummeled Joseph's face and torso with heavy fists. Blood spattered the dirt floor in front of him. Joseph's head jerked back and forth with the force of each blow. She cried out for him again.

Mabry's hand grasped her chin roughly and force her to look away.

"For far too long I've had to watch this man try to insinuate himself into your graces –into your bed. As if commoner trash such as he would ever be allowed to touch a Queen. And you! You've allowed him too much – I would like nothing better than to exact punishment on this servant. If left up to me, he will die slowly and painfully. He deserves it." He released her chin, leaving her free to return her attention to the abused body before her. Joseph was right there – within reach – and she was powerless to help him.

"You can save him," Mabry hissed next to her ear. "Just tell me where the account numbers are. Give them to me!"

Her expression was desperate. But she had nothing to trade, nothing to give in exchange for Joseph's life. She remained mute, her mind racing - frantically searching for a solution.

"Tell me!" he thundered.

She jumped at the sound of his voice and her captor's tightened their hold. She gasped at the fresh jolt of pain.

Frustrated, Mabry held out the gun he'd taken from Kirk and aimed it at Joseph, who was evidently unconscious, head hanging from his shoulders. The men that had beaten him stepped back and Joseph's body slid to the floor.

"Tell me, now!" Mabry screamed, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth.

"Joseph! No! Please –" The panic made her voice almost unrecognizable. She drew a ragged breath. "They're at…at the palace."

"Where at the palace?" he asked, cocking the gun.

"At…in the library - my library. Behind the portrait, over the fireplace." Her eyes, hollow with despair, moved between Mabry and Joseph. "I swear," she whispered.

"Thank you," he whispered in return. Her body went limp; she had stopped straining towards Joseph. Mabry half turned from her and nonchalantly pulled the trigger, the explosion shattering her world.

Joseph gave a soft moan, twitched slightly, then laid still, blood pooling beneath his body.

Clarisse heard herself scream, just as a pit of darkness opened beneath her and swallowed her whole.

___________________________________________________________

"Wake her up!" a cruel voice demanded somewhere on the far edge of Clarisse's consciousness. "Make her walk!"

She became aware of the cold from the floor seeping into her cheek just as groping hands grasped her arms and pulled her up from where she lay. A wave of nausea rolled up from her abdomen. She staggered slightly and might have fallen had her captor not pulled her back towards him. Inhaling deeply, she finally pushed the nausea back and regained the strength to stand.

"What do we do with him?" someone asked.

"He's still breathing," another voice sounded.

Clarisse opened her eyes, straining to see Joseph. His inert form lay just a few feet away. She could see no signs of life, even though the men said he was still alive. 'Dear God, let it be true,' she prayed. She tried to reach him but the hands gripping her upper arms held her in place.

"He won't be breathing for long," the man who held Clarisse laughed.

"Leave him where he is. He'll bleed out soon enough and we won't have to worry with him any more," Mabry ordered. "Take her back upstairs. I have to make a telephone call and pass on Her Majesty's information." He locked eyes with the Queen. "Thank you so much for your cooperation, Your Majesty. I'm certain Mr. Romero thanks you as well. He would have had to suffer much more than he did, had you not cooperated."

Clarisse barely registered his words. He smiled evilly and then brushed past her and out of the cellar. Then Clarisse was dragged from the room; her last view of her champion was of his hand, stretched out on the floor towards her, blood crusting on the fingers.


	21. Chapter 21

Alternately pushed and pulled by her captors, Clarisse stumbled blindly forward as they took her back upstairs from the cellar to the room she'd been held in before. When the door locked behind her, she began an exploration of the room. There were three large windows along the outside wall. She immediately crossed the room and threw back the heavy drapes, looking for a way out.

The windows were boarded up. Sealed tight.

She turned her attention to the doors in the room. She wrenched them open, finding two closets and a bathroom. There was no egress from any of these. Frustration bubbled to the surface and she slammed the bathroom door, then fell back against it. The sobs she'd managed to hold back so far broke through her wall of control and the tears flowed freely down her face. She slid slowly down the door to the floor, then pulled her knees up to her chest, holding herself tightly as if by holding her body together, she could somehow do the same for her soul.

She hadn't prayed, not really, for a long time. Relying on her own strength and determination had served her well enough in recent years. Now she felt the hopelessness of the situation and realized how little of it was in her control. She prayed now. Not for herself, but for the man who would so thoughtlessly let himself be killed for her. Silently she pleaded with God for his life, begging that he not be taken from her. Joseph held her heart, fragile though it may be, and if he were to die her heart – her soul – would die with him.

Vincent found her on her knees, next to the bed, when he opened the door sometime later. The glow from the lamp outlined her profile and reflected off the gold of her hair. The remaining tears on her cheeks sparkled in the lamplight. He almost felt sorry for her.

But this wasn't the first time. He'd felt sorry for people before. His feelings never interfered with his job. They wouldn't this time either.

Vincent gestured for her to stand up. When she did he said, "Put out your hands." He held up a length of cord and bound her hands together in front of her. "Boss wants to see you again, Luv." He motioned her towards the door. Clarisse could read the cold disinterest in his expression. Negotiating would be wasted on him. And she had no intention of begging. Instead she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as best she could with the rope around her wrists, then walked out of the room.

Mabrey was waiting for her when they arrived in the kitchen.

"Your Majesty," he said coldly. "Please, do be seated." He held out a chair for her. Clarisse looked warily around the room as she sat. Mabrey turned back to whatever he'd been doing when she entered the room.

She placed her hands out in front of her on the table and looked at Vincent expectantly. "Sorry, Luv, but those hands stay tied," he said jovially. "You're money in the bank for all of us and I'm not leaving you unsecured." That said, he stepped back and faded into the corner of the room, exactly as she'd seen Joseph do on countless occasions.

'Joseph.' Cold fear wrapped around her heart.

"Hungry?" Mabrey asked over his shoulder. He puttered around the kitchen as if it was the most natural thing in the world for the Queen to be seated at his kitchen table in the middle of the night. "It's been a busy evening, hasn't it? There's nothing like a good midnight snack to help you make it through a long night."

"Where is Joseph?" she asked coldly.

"I'm sure he'll be along soon. I sent the boys downstairs to collect him just a moment ago. You might as well eat something," Mabrey said as he put a plate of cold cuts and a glass of water on the table in front of her. "We have a long wait before my man in the palace is going to be able to search your library and retrieve the items." Mabrey's voice was still conversational and calm. He seemed wholly unconcerned by the fact that he'd committed treason, kidnapping, assault, and a host of other crimes.

Clarisse's eyes narrowed as she contemplated this new information. The thought that he had a spy in the palace – in her home – gave her pause. Who could it be? And what would happen when her lie was discovered and there were no papers to be found? Pierre was there, visiting for the Pear Festival. And Charlotte. Thankfully Philippe was still away at school. Clarisse was surprised by how small she had allowed her world to become when she realized that most of the people she cared about in her life were under that roof.

The basement door opened and one of the men exclaimed in disgust as he stepped into the room. He wiped his palm on his trousers. His gaze traveled between Mabrey and the Queen. "He's dead. And there's blood all over everything."

"Oh, God! No…" Clarisse whispered. Vincent stepped towards her as she pushed her chair back from the table and got to her feet.

Maybrey stepped up behind her and clamped a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Just throw him into the sea, then. He's no good to us now." Mabrey's voice sounded thick and his hot breath settled heavily on Clarisse's neck as he spoke.

"No! Don't touch him!" Clarisse's voice trembled. "Leave him alone!" She tore herself from Mabrey's grasp and lunged towards the basement door. Vincent moved as she did and blocked her path. Mabrey regained his grip on her and pulled her away once again. Vincent looked questioningly at Mabrey, who indicated he had the Queen under control by thrusting her back into her chair. Vincent joined the other men in the basement.

Clarisse watched helplessly as the four men brought Joseph's body up from the cellars on a makeshift stretcher made from a tablecloth. His head lolled back and forth as his pallbearers swung his body around and made their way towards the door at the rear of the kitchen. She could see Joseph's blood seeping into the linen cloth. Her blood froze in her veins at the sight of Joseph's body being hauled to the sea as if he were merely refuse – rubbish. There they would simply pitch his body into the surf and walk away.

Clarisse felt her body go deathly cold. Mabrey hauled her to her feet once more. "Let's go out into the garden, shall we? We'll be able to watch the festivities from there." He propelled her through the door and out onto a terraced lawn that stretched down to a boardwalk leading to the beach. The house was situated on a sloping hill, not far from the edge of the bay. Mabrey and his captive stood at the top of the boardwalk and watched the activity ahead of them as best they could in the somber moonlight.

Vincent and his men made their way cautiously across a rocky outcrop that formed a natural pier in the surf. When they reached the end, they unceremoniously tossed Joseph's body out into the sea. Clarisse watched in horror as the black clad form sank below the waves. Her heart sank with him. Silent sobs wracked her body as part of her soul was ripped from her and replaced with a dark and heavy anguish. Tremors passed through her, wave after wave of grief and despair.

She wandered down the board walk, trying to keep his body in sight as long as possible. The dark form bobbed listlessly to the surface as it moved away from the shore, only to be reclaimed by the waves. She stopped at the end of the walk, eyes frantically searching the surface of the dark water. She couldn't see him any longer. Her voice had left her and she silently mouthed his name. Then she felt a presence at her side and turned to see Mabrey standing next to her. "No use crying over spilt blood, Milady," he said sarcastically. He pulled her back towards the house as his henchmen followed along behind. His words didn't register as she moved blindly up the walk, not thinking and trying not to feel.

This particular stretch of coastline was strewn with rocks and boulders. Waves crashed violently against those rocks. The sound was deafening to Clarisse's ears. She could almost feel the salty spray tickle her face as she stumbled along.

Clarisse looked out towards the sea, searching again for Joseph's body and considering the possibility of simply running out over the stony shore and into the surf, letting the tide take her where it would. She hesitated momentarily.

Mabrey grabbed her elbow and dragged her forward. "We've no time to stop and enjoy the scenery, Your Majesty," he said mockingly. Clarisse jerked her arm away, catching Mabrey off guard, then suddenly sprinted across the lawn. Mabrey bellowed for his men and took off after her.

The high heels and silk suite were not conducive to any sort of a getaway other than one accomplished in the back of a limousine. Mabrey managed to catch her before she had gotten far. He barreled into her, his momentum driving her to the ground.

Vincent, Kirk and the other two reached them at a run and pulled Mabrey up off of the Queen and set him back on his feet. Clarisse managed to push herself to a sitting position and tried to catch the breath that had been forced from her lungs when the Viscount tackled her.

Mabrey, red-faced and panting hard, snarled at her. Kirk reached down and grasped the rope binding her wrists and hauled her to her feet while Vincent chuckled at the scene.

"Nice try, Luv, but you're going no where," he said. He motioned for the other two men. "Max, you and Gian take Her Bleedin' Majesty back inside."

"Take her to the cellar," Mabrey growled. "She can wait there from now on."

As they made their way back inside the house, Clarisse looked out towards the horizon, trying to think rationally. Thoughts of Joseph, his body battered and broken, dominated her mind. She knew he'd been alive for some time after he'd been shot. She tried to convince herself that he could still be alive. Desperate to hold on to that hope, she tried to put all evidence to the contrary out of her mind.

Unfortunately, her eyes kept stealing back to the trouser leg of the man in front of her. The blood left a deep red smear on his clothing when he wiped his hand there.

Once inside, Clarisse was bundled down the stairs and into the wine cellar. The door slammed shut and she heard the bolt protest as it shot into place on the outside. She struggled to maintain her silent composure in the face of the large dark stain on the dirt floor. More of Joseph's blood. She had to keep it together, had to think.

Within minutes, however, her body wrested control from her mind and she fell asleep. She awoke sometime later, still exhausted and with no awareness of how long she'd slept. The gloom of the wine cellar, broken only by the light of a single dim bulb, was unchanged.

Now thoroughly chilled after having been stretched out of the cold, damp floor, she sat up and huddled against the wall, trying to regain body heat. All she could do now was shiver. And think.

The Viscount told her he had someone in place at the palace that would soon search for the papers that he was so desperate to obtain. Clarisse dreaded what would happen when they searched her library and Mabrey learned she'd lied to him. She still had no idea what money he was talking about or where the list of numbered bank accounts was. The Viscount mentioned the San Cayetano Cartel – the same group that Lord Haversmith warned her about. Warned her, just weeks before his death. Death at the hands of Arthur Mabrey. And somehow, running through this entire story was a thread that tied it to Rupert. At first she doubted the veracity of the Viscount's claim, but she had to admit that even he wouldn't go to such lengths if he didn't truly believe that she held the key to his illicit fortune. Unfortunately, she was completely in the dark. If she had any knowledge about his money, she would gladly surrender it to him to end this ordeal.

Even as that thought raced through her mind, she branded it as irrational. Mabrey would never let her live. He would kill her in cold blood as soon as the information was in his hands. She had to give him something, something that could buy her some time and hopefully get his henchman out of the palace before anyone else got hurt. If she were doomed to death, she would have to make sure she was the only one.

'Not the only one,' her traitorous thoughts reminded her and her eyes traveled back to the bloodstained floor. The longer she stared at it, the brighter her anger burned. Mabrey had taken had stolen their future. Her loyal bodyguard – more than that, her soul mate - had given his life for her. She would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

Her anger ebbed somewhat when it occurred to her that for the first time in a long time, she was completely alone. Even with her eyes closed, the vision of the bloody floor burned brightly in her mind. As she contemplated the scene, her survival instinct kicked in. She had to survive for the sake of her children. They needed her. Philippe was not ready to rule alone. His brother was there for support, but Pierre had little experience than would help him to train the next king. Neither was ready for the burden of the Crown. Not yet. Her people were depending on her, as well. They relied on their Queen to provide the stability and prosperity they'd become accustomed to. Instability in the palace quickly translated into instability in the financial markets, which would effect the welfare of every citizen in some way.

The wall felt cold and hard as she leaned back against it. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. She began to examine the situation from every possible angle, looking for something – anything – she could use to her advantage

The sound of the door opening interrupted her reverie. Mabrey had returned to the cellar and was standing over her. He said something, but she hadn't paid attention. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

Mabrey eyed her appraisingly before speaking again. "You can either walk or be dragged. I can assure you the latter would be a less than comfortable experience. Now, move!"

She stood up, managing the feat more gracefully than she would have thought possible, with her hands still bound together. "I will not," she said firmly. "You're going to kill me no matter what happens, so I see no need to assist you any further. I am not moving from this spot." She was desperate to get out of the macabre cell, but she hoped to keep her captor distracted by being resistant.

"I am not in the mood for this, Your Majesty!" He spat the words out at her.

"I don't really care about your moods, Arthur," she retorted. She glared at him, her eyes burning with rage and grief. She straightened her shoulders and rekindled her determination, appearing almost as tall and powerful as her tormentor. "I don't care about your money. And I'm through cooperating with you."

Unwilling to be cowed, Mabrey snarled at her. "I don't need your cooperation! I will take what I want! Don't think you can stand in my way like you did all those years with King Rupert. You! A mere woman, barely a step above commoner yourself," he laughed. "Had I been your husband, I would never have allowed such behavior in my wife. She knew her place. But Rupert was such a weakling. I tried to rid him of you but he wouldn't allow it."

"What are you talking about?" She stepped back slightly, taken totally by surprise with this turn in the conversation.

"I'm talking about putting you out of the way, woman. He couldn't divorce you, but you were in the way of everything we could have achieved. Rupert and I could have been the most powerful men in Europe. Wealth like you've never imagined was there for the taking. You were in the way and you should have been dead, but Rupert wouldn't hear of it. And you – you icy bitch! – you kept at him, pushing him to do what you wanted."

"Your memory seems a bit skewed, Arthur. Rupert only did what he wanted. All I ever wished was for him to be a great King!"

"I could have made him a fabulous King – rich beyond any other monarch. He could have been the crowning glory of the entire Renaldi line," Mabrey hissed. He grabbed the rope binding her wrists and pulled her closer. "You were in the way. You've always been in the way – in my way. But no longer. Now I can take whatever I want from you. You've got no one left to protect you."

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words were lost as he yanked the rope, pulling her body into his and covering her mouth with his own hot, wet flesh. His long, flicking tongue pushed its way into her still open cavity and sent shock waves of repulsion through her with its every touch. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She tried to catch a breath and he pushed the kiss still deeper.

Finally she used the only weapon she had. She bit him and pulled away as hard as she could. He released her abruptly, allowing her momentum to carry her to the ground. Unable to use her arms to catch herself, she fell hard and caught the sharp edge of an empty wine rack in the small of her back. She tried to swallow the pain, determined not to cry out.

Lifting the back of her hands to her mouth, she tried to wipe his taste from her lips. "How dare you!" she rasped, her voice cracking with hate.

Mabrey called to Kirk and he and another man stepped in from where they'd been waiting outside the door. At their employer's direction, they grasped Clarisse's arms, hauling her to her feet. They held her fast. Mabrey stepped up close to her again, his expression curled into a sneer. "It obviously wasn't your kiss that Rupert found so enticing," he said. He reached out and grasped her by the throat, relishing the perceptible hardening he felt in his groin when she gasped for air beneath his hand.

The stark reality that she was going to die came into sharp focus for Clarisse. Her mind wrapped itself around that fact, embraced it even. He was going to end her life, but she would never allow him to break her spirit. Nothing he could do would kill her soul.

Drawing herself up as straight as she could, she stared coldly into Mabery's eyes. His hand slipped from her throat. "You don't scare me," she said softly. "And regardless of what you do and what happens to me, you will _never_ win."

Confronted by her icy determination, Mabrey was all but shaking with rage. Before his very eyes she was regaining her control and wresting power from him. The mask of regal disdain was slipping back over her features. The brief sense of power he had felt when she was afraid was ebbing away.

He turned his back on her and marched out of the room. She may have called his bluff, but he had yet to pay all his cards.

"Bring her," Mabrey ordered gruffly as he turned and stomped through the oak doorway and towards the stairs. Kirk propelled Clarisse forward by his grip on her arm. The other men followed along behind them.

They took Clarisse into a first floor room that appeared to be Mabrey's study. The middle of the room was occupied by a large dark wooded desk which matched the deep mahogany paneling. The wall behind the desk supported floor to ceiling bookcases, tastefully decorated with leather bound classics that had probably never been read. Across the room was a huge fireplace with a large portrait of the Viscount hanging above it. It was done in a Napoleonic style – evidently commissioned out of some rampaging sense of self-importance.

One end of the room housed a sitting area with deep leather chairs gathered around a television set. The opposite end held huge windows overlooking the sea. Clarisse immediately went to the windows, eyes straining towards the dim horizon. She knew there was nothing to see there, but it didn't stop her from scanning the waves.

"Please do be seated," Mabrey said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Clarisse turned to see him indicating she should be seated on the leather sofa. She crossed the room but instead sat in a chair. Mabrey picked up the remote and turned on the television.

"I thought we all might enjoy the morning news, Your Majesty," he said. Clarisse was started to realize that it had been hours since they had taken Joseph to the sea. Then Mabrey motioned to Vincent. "Have one of your men check the perimeter of the house. Make sure there are no signs of anyone snooping around. We can't afford to have any trouble while we're this close."

Vincent indicated to Max that he should make the rounds. The rest of them settled down to watch the television.

"Eggs with Elsie" had been pre-empted by a more serious news team. Clarisse recognized the anchors from the evening news program. The anchors had evidently been up all night, covering the kidnapping. They were in the middle of an interview with a former member of the palace's housekeeping staff – a mousy little woman Clarisse had no memory of. The former maid was answering questions regarding possible threats to the Queen's safety and obviously making up her answers from whole cloth. The only information she managed to convey with any sense of certainty was the Queen's preference for a heavy thread count in her sheets and the fact that she didn't like pear tea. The interviewer couldn't help but looked relieved when he was interrupted by his colleague with the news that the palace was issuing a statement.

They switched to a live view of the throne room.

Clarisse could see Pierre and Sebastian Motaz as well as a few of the more senior members of parliament lined up along the deep violet curtain that had provided a backdrop for many of her press conferences over the years.

The camera panned to follow her son as he approached the podium. As it moved, it captured the anguished face of Charlotte who stood off to one side of the assembled dignitaries. She thought she saw a look pass between Charlotte and Pierre – trying to provide mutual support. Her breath caught in her throat and tears burned her eyes. She was fully aware that these few flickering images might be the last time she ever saw them.

Pierre gripped the edges of the podium and took a deep breath. He addressed the cameras and his face, drawn and tense, filled the screen.

"As you know, her Majesty, Queen Clarisse, was the victim of an apparent assassination attempt and is now missing. The palace is hopeful that Her Majesty is still alive, as no—" Here Pierre flinched and closed his eyes briefly before continuing. "No body has been found.

"For the moment, the government rests safely in the hands of Prime Minister Motaz and the executive committee of parliament. Crown Prince Philippe has been summoned from American is on his way back to Genovia.

"I know her Majesty would want me to reassure her subjects that they are in good hands during this time of crisis. There will be no disruption in the business of government even as we continue our efforts to return Queen Clarisse to her throne."

Pierre looked down at the podium momentarily. When he raised his face to the cameras again, tears shone in his eyes. "I have a personal statement to make as well. To whomever is holding my mother: Return her now. She has done nothing but good for this country and whatever your purpose, it could not be helped by injuring such a beloved and benevolent ruler. Give her back to us. Please. Whatever injustice you feel has been committed against you cannot be righted by hurting either Mother or her bodyguard Joseph. Don't make this situation worse." Tears trailed down his face now. "And Joe – if you are out there and can hear my voice; keep her safe. Keep her safe, my friend. Yourself as well." Pierre quickly wiped away his tears and looking into the camera with renewed intensity. "I love you, Mother. We all do. Take courage."

With those final words, Pierre stepped away from the microphones and the view switched back to the newsroom studio.

Clarisse had managed to hold her emotions in check until she heard her son ask Joseph to keep her safe. The horrible emptiness she felt at the thought that she would never feel his hand at the small of her back ever again or connect with his gaze across a crowed room, threatened to overwhelm her. Tears trembled hot and heavy behind her eyelids, threatening to spill over and down her cheeks. She couldn't help but feel tremendously proud of her son and the poise he had exhibited at such a difficult time. Hopefully Philippe would be able to follow his brother's example.

Returning her attention to the room and its occupants, her anger burned away the remaining tears. Mabrey was sitting behind his desk, glowering at the television screen. He felt Clarisse's glare and turned his gaze toward her. "Benevolent ruler? Beloved?" He practically snarled at her. "What have you ever done, other than stand in the way of your King? If your son wasn't such a selfish, sniveling piece of –"

"Stop!" She yelled and pushed herself out of the chair. Vincent moved to the edge of his seat, watching the Queen closely. Kirk and the others turned their attention from the television to watch Clarisse and Mabrey.

Clarisse leaned across the desk from the Viscount, the blue of her eyes darkening with rage. "You claim to be so incensed by whatever it is you think I did to Rupert. And now you're on some sort of maniacal power trip that you've fed by taking me captive. Well, so be it. But by God, you will leave my children out of this! Your quarrel is with me, not them!"

Mabrey unconsciously pushed back in his chair in the face of her onslaught. "This is more than a mere quarrel! This is--!"

"I don't care what this is! But it's nothing to do with my sons," she hissed at him and turned on her heel to walk over to the windows. As she looked unseeingly at the view outside, she breathed deeply, trying to reign in the anger coursing through her body. She couldn't afford to lose control. Anger would only get in the way at this point.

She could hear voices of the others in the room, but paid no attention to what was being said. Instead, her gaze focused on the horizon, the point where the sky met the sea. Her breath hitched in her throat as she realized she was staring at Joseph's grave. Time and tide had by now swept his body away, probably never to be found.

Clarisse didn't realize it, but the tide had turned.

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_A/N Y'all know that I like happy endings, right? _


	22. Chapter 22

In a rhythm established at the dawn of creation, the tide always turns. This time it turned not long after Joseph's body was consigned to the sea. The same moon that was powerful enough to direct the movement of the oceans gently caressed the dark form that the waves had rolled out onto the cold, coarse sand of a desolate beach.

The form didn't move. It lay still and quiet for so long that the moon had all but given it up as driftwood. Just as to moon was abandoning its post to the dawn, Joseph's fingers clenched into a fist. He began to cough, clearing his lungs of any water that remained.

It was probably another hour before consciousness actually started to return. Slowly he regained awareness and then managed to roll over onto his back. After several minutes, he was able to pull himself into a sitting position. The sun had risen and he surveyed his surroundings. It took only moments to get his bearings. He was south of the Mabrey estate. How far he wasn't sure.

He took quick stock of his injuries. His shoulder throbbed painfully and he could barely move his left arm. He managed to unbutton his shirt enough to get a look at his chest. Odd, he didn't remember being shot, even though he certainly remembered a lot of pain. However, there was undoubtedly a bullet wound in his chest – just below the collar bone, above and to the side of his heart. As far as he could tell, there was no exit wound. The salt water seemed to have cleaned it a bit and stopped any bleeding. He rebuttoned his shirt carefully, his arm protesting any movement.

He didn't have a gun, but his captors had missed the stiletto he kept between the layers of leather in the top of his boot. Joseph knew he would have to have help, but there was no way to summon anyone. And he couldn't afford to let Clarisse wait while he hunted down reinforcements. It had been hours, he knew, since he'd last seen her. Mabrey could have killed her by now. Or worse. Finding her was the top priority.

Struggling to his feet, Joseph turned in the direction of the Mabrey estate and began to walk. His limbs were stiff, but they warmed quickly. He'd only made it a few hundred yards when he saw movement in the rocks close to the water's edge.

A young boy was playing there. He couldn't have been more than 10 years old. Joseph called out to him. The boy stopped his game and watched warily as the man in black approached.

'I need your help, young man."

It took some convincing, but once the boy was satisfied that Joseph wasn't a pirate come ashore to shanghai him into maritime slavery, he agreed to help Joseph. He lived on a neighboring farm and played along the shoreline often.

"How long will it take you to run back to your house?" Joseph asked.

"Not too long. I can run almost the whole way before I get tired."

Joseph nodded. "Your Queen needs your help. She's being held captive at the Viscount's estate. I need your parents to contact the palace and notify them of Her Majesty's whereabouts. This is vitally important. Can you do that?"

"Well, yeah, I can…" The boy hesitated.

"But?"

"My mama is never gonna believe that and I'm gonna get whipped again for telling stories!" the boy moaned.

Joseph eyed the lad sharply. "What's your name, boy?"

"Alexander."

"Alexander, your Queen requires this of you. If you perform this mission, you will have saved her life and a great reward will await you for your bravery. It is of utmost importance." He gazed solemnly at the boy who met him with inquisitive green eyes.

"Queen Clarisse really needs me?" he asked, his tone slightly awestruck.

"Yes, Alexander. Are you ready to serve your Queen?"

"Yes sir!" The boy stood straight and tall and suddenly saluted. Then his shoulders slumped. "But Mama still won't believe me."

Joseph got down on one knee, bringing himself to Alexander's eye level. "You must make her believe you. Listen to me, son. Tell you mother to call the palace and speak to the security office. My name is Joseph. Tell them you have talked to me and give them this code." He leaned forward and whispered his cell phone number into the boy's ear. "That will prove to them that you have really spoken with me. Then you can give them the Queen's location."

Alexander nodded, his face serious. He whispered the code carefully back to Joseph, who nodded his approval. "Queen Clarisse will be ok, won't she? She's seems so nice. Grandfather says she is the best ruler that Genovia has ever had. Is she as nice as she looks?"

"She will be alright if you and I rescue her, Alexander," Joseph answered seriously. "And she's even nicer than she looks. If you help me save her I will make sure you get to meet her and you can judge for yourself. She loves little boys. You'll see." Joseph smiled reassuringly at the youngster.

Alexander repeated the code one more time and then took off towards his home, as fast as his legs would carry him.

He stood watching the boy run for a few moments, breathing a prayer that the child would complete his task. Then he turned back in the direction of the Viscount's estate, making his way as quickly as he could while at the same time trying to conserve strength and energy. He took the long way – up through the hills to the eastern edge of the property. The climb was less strenuous there and the forest would conceal him.

It took the better part of an hour for Joseph to reach the edge of the manor gardens. He knew that a least one of his ribs were broken and breathing was painful. He'd found a fresh water stream along the way and stopped to drink and cool down. The cold water was a godsend and he felt more human once his body was somewhat rehydrated. He hated to stop and rest but he knew he would need all the strength he could muster if he was going to help Clarisse.

Joseph knew she was still alive. He was certain of it. If she were dead, he was certain he would know that too. Clarisse couldn't be dead. The gods would not be so cruel as to take her away from him. He knew she was alive, but that's all he knew. The only glimpse he'd had of her since the kidnapping showed her to be alright, and he tried not to dwell on the anguish he'd seen in her eyes. Instead he focused on Mabrey and let his hate burn hot and fierce against the man.

After reaching the edge of the manor house garden, Joseph stayed hidden by a tall hedge. He scoped out the lay of the land, looking for clues, gathering information. There was no way to storm the house and blast Clarisse out of there. They'd both be killed. He would have to use stealth as his main weapon.

The sun was high in the sky now but there were plenty of tall trees and thick shrubbery to conceal him as he made his way to the house. He saw movement in one of the ground floor windows and a flicker – maybe a television? He moved towards the window when he heard a door open and close around the corner. Quickly Joseph melted back into the shadows.

The man seemed to be doing a quick check of the grounds. He made his way further away from the house, in the general direction of Joseph's hiding place. Joseph fought the urge to move and simply waited for his quarry to come to him. The broken ribs, coupled with the bullet wound which now burned hotly in his upper chest, meant that he had to dispatch the man in a hidden location. There was no way he could move a body.

It took an eternity, but eventually the man made his way past the stand of trees where Joseph hid. Watching each step, gauging precisely where his guard would be out of visual range of the house, Joseph stepped up behind the man and slipped his stiletto between two ribs and into the heart. The guard fell without a sound.

___________________________________________

Clarisse now concentrated on the Viscount's conversation with his henchmen. Vincent and Kirk had evidently chosen this time to make their demand for more money. Clarisse pretended to be absorbed in the scenery as she listened to their complaints.

"You didn't tell us that she was the bleedin' Queen!" Kirk growled. "We lost two men yesterday because you failed to adequately brief us on what to expect. You owe us, Mabrey!"

"I couldn't tell you the truth up front," Mabrey hissed. "You wouldn't have taken the job!"

"Maybe yes, maybe no," Vincent said quietly, glancing over at Clarisse. "That is beside the point now. But if you expect us to finish this job, we are going to renegotiate."

"What do you mean, 'finish the job'?" Mabrey asked.

"My men and I can be packed up and gone at a moment's notice. Don't think we wouldn't leave you here on your own with the Silk Tiger over there." Vincent grinned at Kirk. "I wouldn't want to bet against her in that situation." Both men laughed while the Viscount fumed. Vincent turned his gaze back to Mabrey. "We want another 30%. Or the deal is off and we walk."

"I've told you before – as soon as I retrieve the information I'm after, money is no object. I'll give you another 40%, all right?" Mabrey glared at the men. They exchanged a look and then Vincent nodded. "All right. Forty percent it is." His voice lowered just a notch. "But don't try to screw us around, or this won't be pretty. Got it?"

Mabrey didn't answer, but instead got up and moved over to the phone. As he dialed a number he glanced over to the window. "Why hasn't Max come back yet?" he asked as he listened to the sound of rings going unanswered on the other end of the line.

Kirk glanced at his watch. "He's right, Vince. Max should've come back by now."

Vincent cursed and crossed the room to stare out the window next to Clarisse. "I hope you don't have any friends out there trying to cause trouble for my boy," he growled at her. "That could have some very bad consequences for you."

Clarisse didn't answer, but studied the view more intently, hoping that there was indeed someone out there to help her. She pressed her hands to the glass, straining to see into the shadowy foliage of the overgrown gardens. But there was nothing to see.

Vincent came to the same conclusion. "Gian! Go find that worthless Max. He's probably sneaking a smoke outside one of the doors. Tell him to get his lazy carcass back in here."

Clarisse moved back to the chair she'd vacated earlier. Her head throbbed and she could feel hopelessness trying to creep into her awareness. Again she concentrated on her anger, trying to keep her other emotions at bay. Strength was essential to her survival. She sat with her back straight, her hands resting in her lap. At least she could take some comfort in the knowledge that whatever it was that Mabrey was seeking, he wasn't going to get her help to find it. No matter what.

Minutes passed. They could have been hours.

Mabrey tried the phone again.

_______________________________________________

Joseph made his way closer to the house. He was now carrying a small handgun in his belt, thanks to a quick search of the dead body. He still couldn't use his left arm and the firearm was a noisy weapon, so the gun stayed in the belt and the knife was at the ready in his hand. He knew there were at least three men holding Clarisse, in addition to the Viscount himself. The house appeared deserted, but there could have been servants or other guards on the premises as well.

He made his way up to the window where he'd seen the movement earlier. There was no good cover there, but he needed to get some kind of idea what he was up against. He worked his way to the edge of the sill and raised his head just enough to get a glimpse of the room.

His heart leaped in his chest before his eyes even registered what he was seeing. Clarisse was there, evidently unharmed. She looked calm and composed sitting in one of the room's arm chairs. If it weren't for the rope he could see binding her wrists, she would have appeared as if nothing was wrong. Relief flooded his senses as he drank in her profile.

Finally he tore his eyes away and made a survey of the other occupants – Mabrey and three other men. He recognized Kirk – the man who'd broken his ribs. As he watched, one of the men left the room. Immediately Joe skittered away from the window and headed back around the corner of the house. He'd seen a door there earlier and if the man was coming outside to look for his compatriot, he'd probably come that way.

Just as he managed to get hidden next to the door, it opened and the man exited. Joseph held his breath and let the man walk right past him before he stepped behind him and once again thrust his knife into Gian's back. This time his aim wasn't as sure and the man dropped to his knees. He let out a strangled cry and twisted around to face his attacker. Joseph was in no shape to fight, and was reaching for his gun as the man drove his head into Joseph's solar plexus.

The wind was knocked out of him and he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. The blow forced him to the ground, pain rifling through every part of his body. He would have cried out himself, but he suddenly had no breath. He fought to maintain consciousness as the other man pulled himself away, clawing at the knife protruding from his back.

Joe managed to grasp the gun and draw it from his belt. His aim was shaky, but he fired off two quick shots. The other man fell dead. He knew there would be no way to hide the body, so Joe dragged himself to his feet and ran for cover. The sound of the shots should bring the other men running.

His eyes watered and he tried to draw breath. He felt as if he were breathing through a pillow. He couldn't get enough air. Blinding pain still wracked his body. The bullet wound was bleeding again and a broken rib had evidently punctured one of his lungs.

Gun aimed at the doorway, Joseph waited. They would come for him now.

____________________________________________________

Mabrey slammed the receiver down into its cradle. His face had gone red with rage. He made a guttural noise and crossed the room to stand in front of Clarisse.

"You worthless hag!" he screamed and backhanded her across the face. His ring left an ugly red scratch down her cheek. "You bitch! You incompetent whore!" He drew his arm back to strike her again, but Vincent reached out and grabbed his arm. Clarisse met Mabrey's furious gaze with her own unflinching icy stare.

"What's wrong?" Vincent demanded.

"The papers aren't there. She's played us for fools!" the Viscount sputtered.

"Surely you didn't expect me to actually cooperate, Arthur?" Clarisse continued to stare him down. "Even if I did know where these papers are that you want – which I don't – I would never give them over to you. Kill me or not, but I'll never help you."

Two shots rang out.

"Good God, what's going on?" the Viscount yelled jumping back from Clarisse.

"Get down!" Vincent commanded even as he drew his gun and sprinted to the window. He cautiously peered around the edge of the drapes. "I can't see anything. What about you?" he asked Kirk.

"Nothing," came the reply from another window.

There was silence for a moment.

_____________________________________________________

Joseph waited, gun aimed and ready. There was only silence.

____________________________________________________

Vincent and Kirk backed away from the windows. "What do we do now?" Kirk asked.

"It's Romero!" Mabrey exclaimed.

"The bodyguard?" Vincent asked. "Not bloody likely. He's dead, remember? I don't believe in ghosts and certainly not ghosts who use guns. More likely someone at the palace figured out who had a big enough grudge against the lady to kidnap her and they sent a strike team to get her back."

"It's him, trust me," Mabrey muttered. "We have to get out of this room. It's too exposed."

"You're right about that," Vincent agreed.

"Bring her," Mabrey ordered. "We're going back down to the wine cellar. It will be easy to defend."

"One way in and one way out? That's not smart," Kirk said.

"There is more than one way out. Bring her!" he commanded.

Kirk looked to Vincent who shrugged agreement. Then he reached down and grabbed the rope on Clarisse's wrists. Kirk pulled on the rope and yanked Clarisse to her feet, causing her to stumble against him. She couldn't hold back the exclamation of disgust as he pulled her even closer. He smelled of sweat and cheap beer. "Fancy a roll with a working man, Majesty?" he leered at her. She didn't answer, only pushed away from him.

"Come on! We don't have time to waste," Vincent ordered. Mabrey led the four of them down an interior hallway, back towards the cellar door.

_____________________________________________

Outside, Joseph continued to wait. Nothing happened. Evidently they weren't coming out and that was not good news for the wounded man. He'd hope to pick off more of his enemies from the relative safety from his hidden position. Now he would have to find a way to get inside undetected and make his play there.

The situation was also worse for Clarisse. If Mabrey felt threatened, he might decide to cut his losses and kill his captive. His megalomaniacal scheming might leave him no other choice.

Finally, knowing he had no other options, Joseph crouched low and made his way through the trees and closer to the house itself. There was a set of French doors within a few yards of the end of the tree line. He made for those doors and breathed a sign of relief when he found them unlocked.

______________________________________________

Clarisse almost tripped on the bottom step, but managed to catch hold of the rickety railing. Kirk grabbed her arm and held it tightly, awaiting instructions. Vincent stepped past them to confront the Viscount. "Where are the exits?" he demanded.

Mabrey motioned down a dark hallway leading out of the open area at the foot of the stairs. "There is another staircase at the end of that hall. It leads to the cellar door on the outside of the house."

Vincent nodded and said, "Ok, we have to set up our position. Hopefully we can draw whoever is out there to come down here."

Kirk indicated the wine cellar door. "Why not in there again? We can see the stairs and it's more defensible than staying out here in the open."

"True, but it cuts us off from escape," Vincent mused.

"We won't need to escape," Mabrey interrupted. "Just get him down here and kill him!"

"There has to be more than just one guy out there," Vincent countered.

"It's Romero and I can prove it to you," Mabrey insisted.

______________________________________________________

Making his way into the hall, Joseph listened. There were no sounds of human habitation. He crept stealthily towards the front of the house.

"Prove it how?" Kirk asked, still grasping Clarisse's arm.

Mabrey glared at him, then brushed past them all to stand at the foot of the stairs. "Romero!" he shouted up towards the first floor door. "Stay hidden up there as long as you like. You know the Queen is down here with me. Completely unprotected!" He paused, his mouth curved into a vicious grin. There was no answer.

______________________________________________________

Joseph heard the shout. He couldn't make out the words. But now he had the direction and he began to work his way towards the kitchen. Still he moved silently, careful for ambush. His breathing sounded loud and labored in his own ears.

______________________________________________________

Mabry motioned to his men. "Bring her over here."

Kirk pulled Clarisse over to stand next to Mabry at the foot of the stairs. He didn't have to force her to move. She was more than anxious to see if it really was Joseph. She'd allowed herself a small hope that he was in fact the one who'd already dispatched two of her captors. If so, she had no doubt the rest would soon follow.

"Romero!" Mabry bellowed again. "I know you're up there. How long are you willing to stay hidden while your Queen is in danger?" Clarisse barely paid attention as she strained against Kirk's hands holding her away from the bottom step. If only she could see him or hear him, everything would be all right. Seconds crept by with no sound from above. The flicker of hope began to fade.

"This is stupid," Kirk muttered.

"You've had her to yourself for far too long!" Mabrey laughed maniacally, taking a step up the stairs. "This time she's going to be mine!" Mabry's words penetrated the edge of Clarisse's attention. She turned her head back towards him just as he shouted again. "I hope you enjoy her screams, Romero. You'll know when I've taken her; I'll make sure her screams are loud enough for you to hear wherever you are!"

______________________________________________________

Joseph had just entered the kitchen when he heard Mabrey's words. He checked the room and found no one. He could see the door to the cellar standing open, but he knew his adversaries were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. There was no way to get down to Clarisse without getting them both killed. He strained, his body tensed, hoping to hear her voice. Only a few mumbled comments from the men floated up to him. He had to find a way down there.

He knew there should be an outside door to the cellar. It was just a matter of finding it. After listening a moment longer, silently willing Clarisse to be strong and to hold on, he moved decisively towards the door leading to the kitchen garden. The door tended to stick, but he managed to open it with very little noise. He listened again for sounds of movement below and, hearing nothing, he made his way outside.

__________________________________________________

Minutes passed like hours. Mabry and his men spoke in guttural whispers, trying to decide what to do next. Clarisse slipped closer to the stairs, trying to catch a glimpse of the movement or a sound from up above. She didn't hear Mabrey order the men back into the wine cellar to wait.

Just as she was close enough to the steps to start to climb, strong hands pulled her back. She was pushed into the wine cellar and thrown to the ground, the air leaving her lungs in a short gasp. When she tried to pull her self back up, she felt a hand wind its way into her hair, pulling her head back to look into the seething face of the Viscount. "Stay seated, madam," he said mockingly. "You're not going anywhere anytime soon."

Mabrey started to pace back and forth. Clarisse watched him with wary eyes. The Viscount was obviously convinced of the identity of his adversary, but Clarisse couldn't allow herself such hope.

The minutes crawled by. Finally Kirk spoke.

"I don't think anyone is coming down here, boss."

Mabry spat a curse towards the ceiling. Then he whirled on the Queen. "Romero is going to die trying to save you," he sneered. "And you're going to bring him to his death. This time we'll make sure he's dead."

__________________________________________________

He found it. The outside door. He tried the handles, but it was locked from the inside. He cursed and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. His head throbbed and he was beginning to feel dizzy. The blood loss and punctured lung were doing nothing for his powers of concentration. This had to be over soon or he was going to pass out.

His fingers closed on the butt of the gun and he drew it out, planning to shoot through the lock. 'No, wait. That won't work,' he thought. He'd almost made a stupid mistake. He needed what little element of surprise he had left. Chaffing at the delay this would cause, he looked around and spotted a gardener's shed. There would be tools inside and thankfully the hinges were on the outside of the door.

He paused for a moment and surveyed the horizon. No signs of anyone approaching, either by land or sea. Hoping and praying that Alexander had completed his mission, Joseph entered the shed in search of tools.

___________________________________________________

Clarisse struggled with her captors, but they held her fast, their grip tightening painfully. Mabrey's hand slid around her throat and he pushed her down onto the floor. She could hear the nervous catch in Vincent's breath and the Kirk's jeering laughter.

Realizing Mabry's intent, she fought violently, lashing out at the Viscount with her high heeled shoes, grazing his shin.

"Hold her legs!" Mabry barked and Kirk reached for the Queen's ankles, only to be rewarded with a vicious kick to the side of his face before he managed to hold her still. Vincent had a death grip on her hands, which were still bound together. He pulled her arms up over her head and sat with his knees on her hands while his own hands held her shoulders to the cold dirt floor.

Tears of frustration and anger pooled in the blue depths of her eyes and Clarisse struggled to free herself. Mabry prodded her hip with the toe of his boot. "So sorry about the dirt floor, Your Majesty. We seem to be fresh out of your usual satin sheets." He laughed and stepped back towards the doorway. "Listen close, Romero! I'd hate for you to miss any part of this!"

Then Mabry dropped to his knees next to the writhing form of his queen. He put a hand to her neck, forcing her chin towards him and looked into her angry eyes. "Don't worry, my dear. All you have to do is lie back and think of Genovia. Oh, and scream. Do please scream. It would be so very helpful."

"I'd never give you the satisfaction!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"No?" he asked and reached for her jacket. He grabbed it in both hands and ripped it open, exposing the creamy flesh and lacy camisole underneath. She flinched and tried to pull away. Mabry made a guttural sound and swung his leg over her side, straddling her body and sitting on her stomach. She gasped, almost sobbed, at the feel of his weight on top of her, but then bit her lip, determined to make no other sound. Death was something she was prepared for. She was not prepared for this.

Mabry laughed and trailed his fingers down her chest…

______________________________________________

The gods took pity on Joseph and he quickly found a screwdriver. The hinges were rusty, but he was still able to work them free of the door without much trouble. It took both arms to pull the door away from its frame and he almost blacked out from the effort. Only sheer force of will kept him going. He had to get to Clarisse. If – no ifs. He had to get to her. Now.

He still heard nothing that could be her voice. Mabrey had shouted something a few moments ago, while Joseph was concentrating on moving the door. He couldn't make out the words. Finally regaining control over his trembling hands, Joseph took hold of the gun. Gasping for a deep breath, he began his descent down the steps and into the darkness below. He paid no heed to the drops of blood that marked his every step.

________________________________________________

Clarisse fought an almost overwhelming urge to scream. Despite her best efforts, fear was quickly overtaking her senses. Her vision narrowed to a small tunnel with the Viscount's evil visage at the other end. He was grinning like a demon as he loomed over her and she could see the hatred and lust in his eyes.

"Scream, Clarisse," he whispered. "Scream for me." His hands covered her breasts and she could feel the hot clamminess of his sweaty palms through the satin and lace that still covered her.

She almost choked on the bile rising in her throat then. She strained desperately against the men holding her arms and legs immobile, but with no success. Desperation made her strong, but they had the advantage of size and leverage. There was nothing she could do. She was at their mercy, but still she refused to give in to the fear. Instead she glared back at her captor; her eyes spoke volumes, burning with raw, ragged anger.

"Get away from her!"

The voice sounded terribly distant to her ears, but it must have registered on the men. The weight shifted on her abdomen as Mabry turned towards the voice.

A shot exploded in the small space and for a moment she couldn't hear at all.

Mabry fell forward on top of her, evidently the victim of the gunshot. Her arms and legs were freed when the other men stood and moved away from her. She pushed at the heavy mass of the Viscount, finally freeing herself from the leaden weight.

Struggling to sit up, she could finally see her rescuer. Joy shot through her soul and she immediately lost all sense of fear and pain. "Joseph!" she cried out.

Still keeping his eyes and gun trained on the other men, he asked "Are you injured, Your Majesty?"

Clambering to her feet, she ignored his question. She made a move towards him, but something in his expression stopped her. She stood between her two remaining captors. For a long moment no one moved. Clarisse's eyes moved between the three men, not sure what she should do.

Joseph took his eyes off his captives and glanced at the Queen. He opened his mouth to speak, but the moment his gaze shifted, Kirk leaped to one side as he reached for the gun in the back of his belt and shoved Clarisse towards Joseph. A second shot exploded in the confined space.

Joseph's still smoking gun was now aimed at Vincent's heart. "Do you want to make it three?" he asked. Vincent raised his hands and shook his head. Clarisse crossed the small space to Joseph's side. By now she'd seen how he cradled his left arm against his body and his skin was deathly pale.

She wanted to touch him, to make sure he was real and not just a dream. However, the set of his jaw and hardness of his eyes kept her at bay. It was taking everything he had to keep himself upright and his gun trained on the remaining mercenary.

Joseph motioned with the gun for Vincent to move out of the room. "We're going upstairs," Joseph rasped. "You first."

Hands still in the air, Vincent moved slowly towards the staircase, followed by Joseph and Clarisse at the rear. They began the ascent to the ground floor. Halfway up, Joseph, still gasping for breath, began to sway slightly. Clarisse reached out to touch his back. "Joseph?"

"Claris…" he tried to answer as his body slumped forward, the gun falling from his grasp.

Clarisse and Vincent locked eyes over his fallen form. The gun lay halfway between the two of them. Neither moved. Vincent could see the anger and determination in Clarisse's eyes. His motivation was survival. Hers was something deeper. He could see the ferocity of not only her will to survive but her will to protect her protector. She was indeed a tiger and he still wouldn't bet against her.

Vincent shrugged and spoke, "Let's both live to fight another day, Luv." With that he turned and sprinted up the stairs. Clarisse watched him go, then sank to the steps next to Joseph. She no longer cared about Vincent or where he went; her only concern was the man at her feet.

Clarisse gently lifted his head into her lap and called his name. She got no response. Her fingers sought the vein on his neck. The pulse was weak. He was still breathing, but only short shallow breaths. He felt cold and clammy. Clarisse knew he had to get to a hospital soon. The right side of his body was soaked with blood, both old and new.

Halfway up a staircase was no place to leave an injured man, so she slipped her arms under his shoulders and began to pull him towards the top. She managed to move him a step or two, but his grunt of pain and the renewed bleeding put a stop to that.

Evidently Vincent was gone. The outer door had slammed several minutes ago and she'd heard nothing else to indicate he was still in the house.

Blankets were the first order of business. Joseph was probably deep into shock by now and needed to be kept warm. She might also be able to use a blanket to slowly drag him up out of the cellar.

Clarisse knelt next to him once more and softly explained that she was going to go find blankets but that she would be back in a very few minutes. Then she pressed a kiss to her fingers and touched his lips. There was no response.

Choking back her dread, Clarisse got to her feet and made her way up stairs into the kitchen. The afternoon sun was streaming in the windows lining the south side of the room. After so long in the near darkness of the cellar she squinted painfully in the light. She crossed the room and was turning the knob on the hallway door when she heard something.

Helicopters.

Within minutes, the sweeping lawns of the Mabrey estate were covered with troops from an elite Genovian Army invasion force. When Clarisse opened the door and stepped out into the sun, she was greeted by the muzzles of several dozen assault rifles, and a most welcome shout of "Hold your fire!"


	23. Chapter 23

Clarisse almost laughed at the disappointment on the faces of her troops when they learned there was no battle left to fight.

Within minutes of their arrival, medics were loading Joseph onto a stretcher and preparing to fly him directly to the trauma center in Pyrus. Clarisse stood to one side, surrounded by a strike team, watching the process of needles being stabbed into Joseph's arms so that IVs could be started prior to the flight.

Barking orders left and right to his men, the Commander of the operation ordered the house and grounds searched before he addressed the Queen. "Your Majesty!" He took her hand and bowed slightly over it. As he rose, he noted front of her jacket was torn, which revealed more of the Queen than normal. There was also a bruise forming along her cheekbone. "Are you in need of medical attention, Ma'am?" he asked. Clarisse looked down at her jacket and pulled it tighter across her chest. "I'm more in need of a good seamstress, Commander," she replied. He grinned and whipped off his uniform coat and offered it to her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves smiled her thanks.

"We need to get you out of here," the Commander stated. Clarisse nodded and started towards the medical chopper that Joseph was being loaded into. The whirling blades churned dust and debris and whipped her hair against her head. "They're taking Joseph to the hospital. I'm going with him," she yelled back over her shoulder.

The Commander stepped in front of her, leaning in toward her ear so she could hear his shout. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but we have to get you back to the palace. Until this situation is completely under control, we need to have you in a very tight security location. Please, Ma'am?" He indicated a second helicopter several hundred feet in the opposite direction.

Clarisse started to protest, but the doors to the medical chopper were already sliding closed. She knew Joseph needed help immediately and her protests would only delay them. Her shoulders slumped slightly, but she nodded her acquiescence and let the Commander escort her towards the second helicopter. She could always have a driver take her to the hospital as soon as she got home and assured everyone that she was alright, she decided.

As she allowed herself to be led away, Clarisse glanced back towards the house. Two soldiers were shouldering their way through the door and out onto the lawn, carrying a stretcher between them.

"Hold the chopper!" one yelled. "We got a live one!"

The Commander radioed the pilot to hold on. Not sure of her intentions, Clarisse changed direction and headed towards the stretcher. Muttering a curse, the Commander followed, joined by several of his men. The Queen walked to within spitting distance of the stretcher and stared down Arthur Mabrey for a long moment.

The fallen Viscount glared up at her, his face distorted with hate and pain. Clarisse still didn't speak and finally he screamed at her. "You think I'm sorry for what I've done?" He laughed like a madman, causing the blood stain on his abdomen spread further. "I was only trying to take back what was rightfully mine! You've cheated me all along, woman. And now I suppose you've won. Well, enjoy it. While you can!"

"Your Majesty?" the Commander inquired softly, touching her elbow. She shook him off. No one moved.

A garbled sound, half sob – half laugh, bubbled out of the Viscount's throat. "I'm going to make sure the world knows who you really are," Mabrey gasped. "Your husband was a sniveling coward – a thief and a murderer! And you're nothing more than a common whore – sleeping your way through your servant's quarters," he snarled.

One of the soldiers took a step closer to Mabrey. "That's enough out of you!" the man growled and raised his weapon as if to strike the Viscount with the butt of the rifle. The Queen stopped him with a look.

"Is that all you can come up with, Arthur? Haven't you forgotten that my sons are illegitimate half-breeds, my government is a sham and a failure and my dog has fleas?" Laughter erupted from the men, breaking the tension. "I'm sure all of Genovia will be hanging on your every word, Arthur." Clarisse turned her back on the frothing Viscount and said, "Get him loaded, gentlemen. My bodyguard needs medical attention and I won't have him waiting any longer." She began walking towards the remaining helicopter. "Take me home, Commander," she ordered.

"Yes Ma'am!" The Commander snapped a sharp salute.

As she crossed the lawn, someone shouted "Long live the Queen!" Within seconds the entire platoon took up the cheer for their Queen. Clarisse paused before getting into the helicopter. Their shouts could be heard even over the roar of the blades. She allowed herself a brief smile and waved to her troops, who yelled louder.

A hand reached down and pulled her up and into the cabin. Within seconds her seatbelt was secured and the chopper lifted off and was gone.

________________________________________________

Even being Queen didn't guarantee that she was going to get her way and once Clarisse made it back to the palace, she couldn't get to the hospital. Duty demanded her obedience and pushed her in another direction. When the Queen and her bodyguard were airlifted off the grounds of the Mabrey estate, they left in opposite directions. At the palace she was greeted by an ecstatic son, a sobbing assistant and a throng of worried Genovian citizens anxious for news. Once she had been thoroughly vetted by the palace physician and allowed a quick shower and change of clothing, she made a short speech from the grand balcony.

Back in her suite following the speech, the maids fussed over her. The cook personally delivered a tray with food and tea. The gardener's helpers brought in armloads of fresh flowers for her rooms and office. Pierre was there, on the phone, arguing the palace press secretary about whether or not his mother would be available for interviews anytime soon. He caught Clarisse's eye and winked at her. She managed an anemic smile in return.

Clarisse had not had a moment alone, other than 10 minutes under the shower spray. Even though she should have been ravenous, she couldn't stand the thought of food. Frustrated with the cloying attention, Clarisse was picking up a phone to call for a chauffeur and guards to take her to the hospital when Charlotte interrupted her with an update on Philippe.

His plane was landing within the hour. He'd just been informed of his mother's rescue. Also, Parliament was clamoring for attention – their interest every bit as salacious as a tabloid reporter's. The Prime Minster held them at bay, but apologetically put through a call to her Majesty to get some direction on what needed to be done next.

Clarisse chaffed at the delays, even though she couldn't deny the deep, maternal need to simply hug her youngest son once again. While waiting on Philippe to arrive, she kept Charlotte in almost constant contact with the nursing staff at the hospital. Joseph's injuries were serious and he was being prepped for surgery. Clarisse ached to see him.

Unfortunately, she made the mistake of waiting for Philippe in her office. Charlotte had done her best to keep things going, but the stress of the past couple of days resulted in mountains of paperwork and phone messages. The office was becoming littered with cards and condolences from well-wishers all over the world.

Some of them were opened and lying on her desk. When she sat in her chair and her feet didn't quite reach the floor, she realized that Pierre had used her desk while trying to go through some of the paperwork. She adjusted the chair back to an acceptable height and pushed the cards aside; instead reaching for the stack of messages bound with a red rubber band. This was Charlotte's way of denoting the most important. She read through the stack and was picking up the phone to return the first message when her door opened and Philippe bounded in.

"Maman!" he shouted, sounding to Clarisse's ears exactly as he had when he was a young boy. Clarisse put down the phone and stood to receive him. He rounded the corner of her desk and swooped her into a bear hug, lifting her up off the floor.

"Philippe!" she gasped. Her voice choked, "I can't breathe!"

He sat her down, but didn't let go. "I was so worried, Maman. Please don't ever leave us like that again."

"It wasn't exactly a planned trip, dear," she muttered dryly, leaning back to look up at her son. Not as tall as his brother, he was still an imposing sight. Both her sons had inherited their father's height and broad shoulders. "It's so good to see you, darling." She smiled up at him.

"Are you sure you're ok? Really?" he asked, his brown eyes showing his concern.

"I'm fine, Philippe."

"Joe wouldn't ever let anything happen to you, right?" Philippe asked. "Where is he? I'd like to thank him."

"He – he's in the hospital," Clarisse said quietly, horrified at how close she was to tears. She pulled away from Philippe and turned back towards her desk.

"Then why are you here?" Philippe demanded.

"They wouldn't let me go with him," she said, her voice almost breaking. Philippe sounded like a parent and she felt like an exhausted child. It didn't even occur to her to question his assumption that she would be at Joseph's side. "They brought me back here and it's been nonstop since then and now there's all this work to be done and – " She gestured lamely at the paperwork strewn across the desk.

Philippe reached past her and picked up the phone. "Charlotte? Have a car brought around immediately for Mother. She's going to the hospital. Will you tell Pierre? Hang on." He looked at Clarisse. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?" She looked at him blankly. "I thought so," he grumbled, then spoke back into the phone. "Could you also have the kitchen pack a meal for her as well? She can eat when she gets to the hospital." He paused again. "Thanks Charlotte – you're a lifesaver."

Clarisse picked up the message she dropped on the desk earlier. "It will take them a few minutes to get everything ready. I'll just return a couple of these calls."

"No." Philippe slipped the paper from her grasp. "Not today. I will stay here and Charlotte and I will work through as much of this mess as possible. There is nothing and no one that can't wait a couple of days. The practice will be good for me, don't you think?"

Clarisse took a deep breath. "Alright. I'll go."

___________________________________________

Tears splashed down on the hand she held in hers.

A soft voice spoke from the foot of the bed. "He's going to be alright, you know." Startled, Clarisse looked up to see that Pierre had entered the hospital room unnoticed. As he spoke, Pierre moved to the side of the bed to stand next to his mother. He draped his arm casually across her shoulders. She wiped at her tears, obviously embarrassed.

"I'm sorry – I know I shouldn't lose control like this, Pierre. It's just the stress finally getting to me, I suppose." Much to her chagrin, she'd not been able to staunch the tears and they continued to leak from her eyes.

Pierre drew her into a tight hug. Clarisse clung to him, drawing strength from him even as she allowed herself a moment of weakness. Pierre turned his eyes skyward and silently thanked God for bringing her home safely. When he felt her calm a bit, he released her and looked over at the man on the bed. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicated his deep sleep.

Clarisse also returned her attention to Joseph, but she wasn't quite sure what to do with her hands. She didn't feel comfortable touching him with someone else in the room. She clasped her hands nervously in front of her.

"Does he know?" Pierre asked.

Clarisse gave a guilty start, then looked at her son. "Does he know what?"

"That you love him."

Clarisse opened her mouth to protest, but Pierre grinned and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"I don't know," Clarisse finally admitted. She studied Pierre, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Will I get to perform the wedding ceremony?" He was smiling widely now.

Clarisse gave him a small, rueful smile in return. "I'm afraid that can never –"

"Don't say that. Why couldn't you get married?"

"I can't. Not while I'm Queen, Pierre. It – it's just impossible." She looked down for a moment, silently debating with herself about how much she should reveal. When she looked up again, her eyes were clouded. "I would love to be able to tell the world how I feel, Pierre. Joseph makes me happy." Her expression pleaded with her son for understanding. "Happier than I've ever been in my life," she said quietly. Pierre nodded gravely. "But no one can know," she continued, dropping her gaze. "Duty stands in the way and as reigning Queen I cannot remarry unless it is to consolidate lineage or secure a progeny for the throne."

"So if marriage is out of the question," Pierre said slowly, not at all sure how to proceed when it came to suggesting his mother take a lover. "Why can't you just, uh, do what Father always did?" he finished rather lamely.

Clarisse smiled at him and shook her head. "Two reasons. The first being that no one can know how I feel about Joseph. Your father was a Renaldi by blood and his line of succession was very secure. He was a powerful King and as such, after his children were born, society turned a blind eye to his dalliances. It was all but expected."

Pierre sighed. "And the Queen, who is royal by marriage, is not as powerful and must be above reproach – above suspicion. Never able to indulge her need for companionship and love? Never able to open her heart to anyone else after giving it so selflessly to the King?"

"Something like that. Although you do make it sound very dramatic." A hint of a smile lit her features.

Pierre grinned. "And the second reason?"

Clarisse turned her attention back to the bed. This time she picked up Joseph's hand and stoked it gently. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. It was as if she wasn't used to the words she spoke and was having to work to get them out of her throat. "Joseph is the most noble, most honorable man I've ever known. His duty is so important to him and I've never known him to shirk it, no matter how difficult I may have made things for him." Pierre laughed at that and she continued. "He takes care of me – just me, not the Queen. Joseph makes me laugh, he makes me feel human. He deserves more – much more – than I can give him. There have already been too many sacrifices that he's had to make. I can't ask him to sacrifice his chances for a wife and family, as well."

Pierre put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "Maybe you should let Lancelot here make up his own mind about what sacrifices he's willing to make, Mother. That might not be how he sees this at all."

"Lancelot?" Clarisse laughed bitterly. "We all know how that story ended." She crossed her arms over her chest and faced her son.

He was still smiling and shook his head. "You are so stubborn, sometimes, Mother. I guess that's where Philippe gets it."

Clarisse smiled softly. "He's not the only one."

Pierre's eyes became suddenly serious. "I owe you an apology, Maman," he said, dropping his hand from her shoulder.

"Whatever for?" Clarisse's voice was concerned.

"If I'd had any inkling of how things would turn out – Father dying unexpectedly and you having to take the throne until Philippe is ready to rule – I would never have abdicated. I hate to see you burdened with this – this duty." He said the last word as if it were a communicable disease.

Clarisse reached out and touched his face tenderly. "You're apologizing for an appalling lack of clairvoyance? Apology accepted."

Pierre grinned at her. "How did we ever end up with a kingdom without a Merlin? How are you supposed to rule if you don't have someone around who can see the future? We have our Lancelot, but we are sorely lacking a Merlin." Clarisse laughed and hugged her son.

"Thank you for understanding, Pierre," she whispered.

"You're welcome, Mother." He pulled back a bit. "But just because I understand, doesn't mean I think you're right." He indicated Joseph with a nod of his head. "Tell him. And let him decide. After all, you won't have to be Queen forever. Philippe will be ready to take the throne before you know it." With that, he kissed his mother on the cheek and left the room.

Alone again, Clarisse turned her attention back to Joseph. His chest and shoulder were heavily bandaged. The surgery had been successful, the doctor had assured her. The main problem now was that infection had taken hold. Joseph was being pumped full of antibiotics and with time and rest his body should be able to fight it off.

A light sheen of perspiration had broken out on his brow and he moaned softly. His face contorted briefly with a spasm of pain. As she was reaching for the call button, Clarisse saw the readout on the machines next to the bed change as a dose of pain medicine was automatically delivered. Instead of calling the nurse, she ran the back of her hand down the side of his face. He moved involuntarily into her touch, making her smile.

Clarisse stood next to the bed, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest for a few minutes longer. The stillness and quiet of the room did its work and at last she began to listen to the messages her body was sending. She was exhausted. And finally hungry.

The picnic basket the palace sent was long gone. She'd barely nibbled at the food while she waited through Joseph's surgery. Adrenaline had carried her a long way, but that well was finally dry. She stroked Joseph's beard one more time with her thumb, then walked over to the door.

As she opened the door, the two bodyguards on duty snapped to attention.

"Have you gentlemen eaten dinner yet?" she asked.

"No ma'am," Brian, the taller of the two, answered.

"But we're fine, ma'am," his shorter companion, Thomas said quickly. "Please continue your visit."

She smiled and leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms casually over her chest. "I won't be leaving anytime soon, thank you, Thomas. However, I am getting rather hungry. Is there a way to get something to eat?"

"There's a cafeteria downstairs, ma'am," Brandon said eagerly.

"You're hungry too?" Clarisse's smile broadened.

"Just a little, ma'am," he answered, all but scuffing his toe in the dirt.

"Don't mind him, Your Majesty," Thomas interjected. "He's always hungry! It wouldn't hurt him to miss a meal or two."

Clarisse laughed. "Well, how about a compromise. If I promise to stay here and not get into any trouble, will one of you go downstairs and get us all something to eat?"

Brandon glanced at Thomas who nodded, before he spoke. "What would you like, your Majesty?"

"I have no idea. Whatever looks good to you." She turned to go back inside.

"Uh, that might not be a good idea, Your Majesty," Thomas ventured. "Brandon has a cast iron stomach and absolutely no taste. He eats all kinds of trash."

"I'm a growing boy!" Brandon interjected, pretending to look hurt. Clarisse laughed again and patted his arm. "I'll take my chances. Perhaps you could find me a cup of tea as well?" Brandon agreed and Clarisse slipped back into the room, closing the door behind her. The faux leather chair next to Joseph's bed beckoned her. The next thing she knew, Thomas was standing over her. "Your Majesty?"

Slightly startled, she pulled herself up straight and ran a hand over her hair. "I'm sorry, Thomas. I guess I dozed off."

"No problem, Ma'am. I put the tray on the table." He eyed it warily. "Brian's not exactly a gourmet, so I hope this is ok."

"I'm sure it will be fine." She stifled a yawn. "Thank you."

Thomas nodded and slipped out of the door, back to his post. Clarisse looked over at Joseph. His breathing was still deep and steady. No change. She stretched, then reached out to pull the table up to her chair. Under a plastic cover was a plate containing a pile of green leaves of dubious origin - probably a salad - a hard roll, and some strips of what appeared to be fried chicken. There was also a tub of sauce, a putrid yellow concoction. She eyed it with some trepidation.

There was a package of plastic flatware in a protective wrapper. Clarisse tore it open and went to work trying to cut the chicken. Her fork promptly broke in half. She sighed loudly and stared disgustedly at the plate.

"You're supposed to eat it with your fingers."

"I don't eat with my fingers," Clarisse replied, totally oblivious.

"Your loss."

It finally registered that Joseph had spoken to her. "Joseph!" she cried. She jumped up out of the chair, almost knocking over the table in the process, and made her way to his bedside.

She repeated his name as she brushed her hand down the side of his cheek, careful to avoid the oxygen tube attached to his nose. "You ok?" he asked sleepily.

"Of course. You made sure of that." She took his hand and pressed it gently between her own.

He managed a crooked, half-hearted smile. "I don't feel so good," he said.

"It's no wonder," she said softly. "Your wound was infected. They removed the bullet, but the infection is much too close to your heart, so they left the wound open so they can treat it directly."

He grunted in reply.

She didn't understand and started to ask him to repeat himself, but he'd already gone back to sleep. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his eyebrow. Minutes passed as she watched him sleep, reveling in the feel of his hand in hers. Eventually, hunger pained her again and she began to pick at the tray of food. After a few bites, she realized that she was famished and that in her current state, she certainly could eat with her hands.

Joseph continued to sleep, even after her meal. She watched him from her chair, memorizing his features, painting them in her mind. Bringing her feet up into the chair, she curled into it sideways. Her eyelids were heavy and before long she was sleeping too.

Much later, Joseph opened his eyes again. They were much clearer now. The window reflected the soft lights from inside the room. It was completely dark outside. He glanced around the room and saw the Queen sleeping in the chair. She was rolled up into a ball, arms tucked in tight to her body, obviously chilled. Joseph smiled warmly at the sight. He touched the nurses' call button and almost instantly the guard on post outside the door stepped into the room.

"Sir? Everything ok?" he asked.

"Fine Brian," Joseph rasped. His throat was still raw from the tubes that had been forced down it for the surgery. "Please take her Majesty home."

Brian nodded and knelt next to the sleeping form. He reached out and gently shook her arm. "Your Majesty?"

Clarisse awoke with a start.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but Joseph said we should take you home."

Clarisse clambered to her feet. "Joseph said?"

"You need to rest, your Majesty," Joseph said softly. When she began to protest he cut her off. "No offense, but right now you are not exactly scintillating company." He smiled weakly at her.

"Oh, Joseph, I'm sorry!" She laughed softly. "I guess you're right. Promise you won't cause any trouble while I'm gone?"

"Promise," he smiled. "I'm just going to sleep."

She had moved to the side of the bed and took hold of his hand. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Brian stood at the foot of the bed, unabashedly watching them. Turning back to Joseph, she rolled her eyes. He caught the look and managed to wink in return. "Good night, Your Majesty," he said.

"Good night, Joseph." With a small sigh she dropped his hand and allowed Brian to lead her from the room.

_A/N Don't hate Brian. He can't help it if he's curious. Besides - these two need at least a couple more chapters of fun, don't you think?_


	24. Chapter 24

Clarisse Renaldi was at peace with the world. More or less.

It had been almost two weeks since her rescue from Viscount Mabrey's estate. Her security team determined that a new employee, one of the kitchen staff turned out to have been in Mabrey's employee, as well as the Crown's. Security had detained him originally when he was caught prowling in the private family wing just before the Queen's rescue.

The indictment against the Viscount for kidnapping and assault had been rushed before the Court in Pyrus for a preliminary hearing. The Viscount's attorney asserted, and was backed up by medical evidence, that his client had lost touch with reality. The Court agreed and placed Mabrey into an institution for the criminally insane as soon as he was well enough to be released from the hospital. He would stay in the institution until he died, or until he was deemed competent for trial. Whichever came first.

Clarisse wasn't at all sure that Arthur Mabrey was insane, but she certainly thought he was crazy. Her Attorney General assured her that the facility was one of the most secure in Europe. There would be no escape and she could rest easy, knowing that Mabrey could not threaten her again.

Unfortunately, her rest was not easy.

Joseph was still in the hospital. His injuries were healing nicely, but the doctor wanted to take no chances with the infection he was treating and he'd kept Joseph confined to a ward for longer than was strictly necessary. It had quickly become obvious that the only way Joseph was going to stay in bed and recuperate was if he was forced into inactivity in the hospital. Even so, the Head of Security had officer's filing in and out of his room for daily briefings and updates. He was using the down time to revamp shift schedules and brainstorm about improvements to the palace security.

Clarisse visited as often as possible, but the demands of office made extended visits difficult. Joseph was the new darling of the press corps, and a cadre of reporters could generally be found mulling around the hospital hoping for any new tidbits of gossip on the slightly mysterious, darkly handsome and very single Royal Bodyguard. As a result, Clarisse kept her visits short and somewhat public. The majority of their communication was now done by phone.

As she lay awake at night, reliving a nightmare or just feeling anxious enough to banish sleep, Clarisse would stare at the phone and silently will it to ring. For the last three nights he seemed to have felt the pull of her mind and had actually ventured to call her in the wee hours of the morning. Joseph was one of a handful of people in the world with her private cell phone number. Their last conversation replayed itself in her mind:

_It was after 1:00 a.m. when the phone rang. _

"_Hello?" she answered. _

"_Hey. Still awake?"_

"_Yes. You too?"  
_

"_Um-hmm. The nurse just left. She says the bullet hole is completely closed and didn't replace the bandages.. I should get out of here soon." He sighed. _

"_That's wonderful! But you sound tired. Don't try to stay awake on my account." _

"_Not tired. All I do all day is sleep. I'm bored. And besides, the nurse will be back just as soon as I fall asleep, which will wake me up again, so what's the point?" he explained. "That's my reason. Why are you still having trouble sleeping?"_

"_I'm just keyed up, I suppose. There's so much work to do," she said._

"_There is always too much work to do. I've never known you to suffer from insomnia before. Are you sure everything is ok, Clarisse?"_

"_How do you know I don't normally have insomnia? Have you installed cameras in my bedroom, too?" she teased. _

_He chuckled. "No. No cameras there. Although, I must admit I've been tempted…" _

"_I'll bet you have." Her voice sounded sultry._

"_Don't do that!" he said with a laugh. "If my blood pressure goes up the nurse is going to come back in here and make me hang up the phone."_

_Clarisse laughed, too. "Is this a common problem for you? Do you often have blood pressure problems when talking on the phone? Maybe you should avoid phones?"_

_Joseph snorted. "You are being purposefully obtuse, Clarisse," he said drily. _

"_I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, Joseph," she replied archly. _

_He sighed and changed the subject. "I've been reading tonight. Mostly poetry." He cleared his throat and began to read: _

"_DEATH, be not proud, though some have callàed thee  
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:  
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow  
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me."_

_Clarisse was silent for a moment, trying to recall the poem. Then she spoke, "I never liked John Donne."_

_Joseph chuckled. "No? I've always found his love poems to be particularly beautiful."_

"_If you like love poems about death," she grumbled._

"_I think they're death poems about love," he countered. _

"_I've had enough of death to last me a lifetime," she said. _

_Joseph laughed. "Point taken. So can we go back to the discussion of the possibility of cameras in your bedroom?"_

Sleep finally came, after that.

And today the sun was shining, the roses were in bloom. Charlotte called the hospital to check on Joseph and was told his doctor was pleased with his progress. He promised to release Joseph soon – tomorrow if he agreed to desk work only for the next two weeks. Clarisse felt more light-hearted and productive than she had in several days. She finished her work earlier than anticipated, which gave her some free time before dinner with the Swedish Ambassador.

It would have been a crime to stay cooped up inside on such a lovely afternoon. Clarisse had Charlotte call the stables and security. She would spend the afternoon riding around the palace grounds.

The stable boys were ready and waiting by the time she arrived. Clarisse spent some time with each of her horses, making sure they all got a bit of carrot or apple. The smell of hay and fresh air permeated the clean stalls. She breathed deeply and began to relax.

It had been too long since she had made time to ride. She'd not had the time to spend with her horses that she used to before Rupert's death. Just before his accident she had been making a concentrated effort to ride more frequently. The exercise was wonderful and just being near these magnificent animals did wonders for her stress.

She smiled softly as she thought about the many summer afternoons she'd spent here with Rupert over the years. This was the one activity that they enjoyed together. Some of the best time's they'd spent together over the years had been on long rides deep into the forest. They would talk to each other, really talk, on those rides.

Rupert's accident had robbed her of the desire to ride for a long time. More recently she'd been so busy there just wasn't time for riding. And now she would have to ride with a security guard as a companion rather than just a distant presence as they had been when Rupert was alive. Had Joseph been here that would have posed no problem. She wouldn't have objected in the least to seeing him decked out in riding gear, astride one of the massive animals. Scott, however nice he may be, was just not the same.

Clarisse glanced at her watch. She was early. There were twenty minutes yet before Scott was to meet her here. The horse she'd been petting nuzzled her shoulder, demanding her undivided attention again. Clarisse laughed softly and patted the horse's long lean neck. "Which of you beauties wants to go for a run?" she asked quietly, answered only by a soft whinny from the stall next door.

The few times in recent memory that she'd been to the stables, she'd exercised some of her younger mounts. This time she felt the need to pay some attention to her older horses. Cinnamon, her favorite roan, pawed the ground commandingly in the large stall at the end of the stables.

"Hello, darling," Clarisse purred at the animal as she opened the stall door. One of the stable boys was immediately at her side. "I'll get her saddled for you, Your Majesty."

"No thank you, Jeremy," she replied. "I'd really like to do it myself. Perhaps you could saddle a horse for Scott, instead?"

"Yes ma'am."

Clarisse inspected her mare, then made her way to the tack room for a saddle. The tack room positively reeked of leather. The smell never failed to make Clarisse smile. So many good memories were associated with that smell – hours spent in riding lessons as a child, the smell and feel of a new pair of gloves on frosty winter mornings, the horrible cologne that Philippe thought made him smell manly when he was still a boy, peaceful afternoon rides with her husband and Joseph's ever present black leather jacket.

Clarisse was about to reach for her usual saddle, when another one caught her eye. It sat on a saddle-stand in the corner. She'd forgotten all about this one. Rupert had given it to her for her birthday. She'd never used it.

The leatherwork was exquisite. Their family crest was hand tooled into the side. She remembered Rupert joking that it might be more fitting had it been carved into the seat. The bits of silver that decorated the leather gleamed even in the semi-darkness of the tack room. Her fingers smoothed their way across the seat. This was the saddle she would use.

As she went about saddling her horse, the animal kept nudging her, trying to get at the remaining bits of carrot Clarisse has stashed in her jacket pocket.

"Stop that, Cinnamon!" she admonished laughingly. Clarisse finished cinching up the girth and then opened the saddle bag to hide the carrots inside. As she dropped them in, she noticed the white corner of an envelope sticking up out of the bag. Curious, she pulled it free and saw her name written across the front. It was Rupert's handwriting.

She stared at it for a long time. It hadn't been there when he originally gifted her with the saddle. The longer she stared at it the more she felt that she shouldn't open the letter – that she should tear it to bits and leave it to mix with the hay on the stable floor. The stable boy returned as she contemplated the envelope.

"Shades – I mean Scott – has arrived Your Majesty. His horse is being saddled." He waited expectantly for a reply.

Clarisse quickly stuffed the envelope into her pocket. She glanced nervously at the stable hand. "I – I think I've changed my mind. Please tell Scott I'm going back to the palace."

"Is everything alright, Your Majesty?"

"Yes. I just remembered something important that I must do." She reached into the bag and retrieved the carrots which she fed to the horse. "Will you please make sure she's exercised?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am."

Clarisse walked back to the palace after declining Scott's offer to ride back in the golf cart he'd driven down to the stables. Her mind was churning. She knew she needed to be alone before she opened the envelope. This had to be the letter Mabrey had been so desperate for. But if that was the case, she already knew what the contents would be. Why this feeling of immense dread?

She climbed the stairs to her office, and stepped inside only long enough to tell Charlotte she had developed headache and was taking the rest of the day off. The dinner with the Swedish ambassador would have to be rescheduled. She could read the concern on Charlotte's face as the younger woman inquired about calling the doctor. Clarisse declined.

"I'm fine, really," she said, trying to smile. "I'm just going to take a nap and maybe a hot bath and I'll be as good as new."

Charlotte nodded her agreement, but put in a call to Shades as soon as the Queen was out of earshot.

"Did something happen at the stables, Shades?" she asked once he was on the line. He told her how the Queen had suddenly cancelled her riding excursion even before they started. He admitted he'd been about to call Charlotte to find out if she knew what was going on.

"Well, keep a close eye on her Shades. Something is going on. I don't remember her ever taking an afternoon off for a headache." Charlotte's voice was worried.

"I wish Joe was here," Shades lamented. "He'd just go and ask her what was wrong." He paused. "Do you think you should…?"

"No! And you shouldn't either!" Charlotte exclaimed. "She needs her space. We'll just be ready to help. If she needs it. Right?"

Shades agreed and terminated the call. Charlotte stared vacantly at the doorway where her employer stood just a few minutes before. Something was wrong. She'd seen it in her Queen's eyes. Joseph would have been able to ferret out the problem within minutes. But he wasn't here. All Charlotte could do at this point was worry.

The Queen sat in her chambers, quiet and alone. The drapes were drawn in her sitting room, blocking most of the afternoon sun and she'd not turned on the lights. The dim room was deathly quiet. She sat in the arm chair next to the fire place and pulled the envelope out of her jacket pocket. Now she flipped it over and over in her hands. She stared at it, but wasn't really looking at it.

The story Mabrey told her about his business partnership with her husband had the ring of truth. She'd not really doubted it. What hadn't made sense was the motivation. Why had Rupert taken the partnerships' money? Where was it? And why would the Viscount risk everything, including his life, to try to get it back?

She didn't want to know. And she was afraid.

Her hands were shaking as she finally opened the envelope and drew out the sheets inside. She recognized the handwriting, as well as the date at the top of the letter. It was written the day before Rupert died.

_Dear Clarisse,_

_If I were less of a coward, I would be telling you this in person. _

_Confession is supposedly good for the soul. I will soon know if that is true._

_Several years ago, I entered into partnership with the San Cayetano Consortium, a group of investors involved mostly in the construction and operation of European casinos. It was easy money and fed my love of gambling even more than the roulette wheel. The Consortium was not strictly legal and as King, I couldn't invest in it out-right. _

_So, I recruited Arthur Mabrey to help me. I invested millions, with him as my front man. I made millions, as did he. The intrigue and the financial wizardry of the whole endeavor were highly entertaining at first. _

_It was like a drug – intoxicating and exhilarating. I was soon hooked. Once the consortium had drawn me into the web of its inner workings, they began to tighten the leash around my neck. I knew it was wrong. I knew I had to get out, but when I tried, they began to blackmail me. Not for money, but they made sure I knew I belonged to them. _

_I tried to distance myself as best I could. Arthur was making money hand over fist and had no desire to back off. He'd already squandered most of his wife's fortune after she died and by the time I approached him with this venture he needed money badly. I let him push me forward when I should have been stronger. _

_And finally, when I had traded my self-respect for mere money, they asked an unthinkable task of me. God help me, but it is a sign of how deeply mired I was in this filth, that I did what they asked. I killed a man, Clarisse. An innocent man._

_I didn't pull the trigger, but I killed Martin Haversmith. _

_It was at that point that I knew I couldn't go on. If I did, it would mean the eventual disintegration of the monarchy. San Cayetano would ask things of me again. Things that I knew I couldn't do – not if I wanted to save my soul. So, I am left with only one choice. _

_You deserve better than me, Clarisse. I've always known that. _

_Genovia deserves better than me. _

_I enjoyed tonight, Clarisse. You and I and Joseph playing cards together like old friends. I can see so much of what I have missed out on these last few years. Your friendship with him is so easy and uncomplicated. I wish it could have been the same for you and I. We've always been complicated, haven't we?_

_As much as I hate to, I find that I must complicate your life once more. The only way for the monarchy to survive is for me to step out of the picture. You will rule Genovia on your own until Philippe is ready. It will be a hard job, and I apologize for saddling you with this responsibility. However, I know you will be fantastic. And when Philippe takes the crown he will make both of us proud. _

_Enclosed with this letter is a list of bank account numbers where the money from our San Cayetano profits has been hidden. It is my money, as well as most of Mabrey's money. His hands are just as bloody as mine and I can't let him profit from this either. I've also written out a full confession regarding the murder we committed. Watch out for him Clarisse. He's going to be viciously angry when he finds out what I've done. I will pay for my crimes. You're the only one who can make sure he pays for his. _

_Please tell Joseph to be especially vigilant as well. Arthur will hurt you, given a chance. _

_I will hide this letter where hopefully only you will find it. And tomorrow I will take my final ride. I pray that you will find it quickly. Use the money for good, my dear. Use it to atone for the horrible mistakes I've made. Take care of my country. And my sons. _

_I love you, Clarisse._

_Rupert_

She couldn't breathe.

She wanted to scream, to cry, but she couldn't even draw breath. She sat staring at the lines swimming before her eyes, not even sure to what she felt. For the first time she realized that her husband's death had been no accident. This knowledge should have brought sorrow, renewed grief, profound surprise.

Instead, when she finally took another breath and began to feel, the strongest emotion was anger. How could he have done this to her? The burden of ruling their country had fallen solely and heavily on her shoulders. Because of his choices. Instead of confessing to her, or at the very least making sure she would find his pitiful confession, he hid it. He would have known she might be months in finding it. That was his choice. He put her in danger by telling the Viscount what he had done. He chose to do that. It almost cost her life and the life of Joseph.

Clarisse read through the letter once more. As King, perhaps Rupert thought had the right to judge himself and determine his own punishment, she mused. Had justice been done by Rupert's self-inflicted execution? Perhaps -- of a sort. How typical of Rupert to be so selfish and to see the situation only as it related to himself. He never gave a thought to the innocent bystanders that would be affected by his suicide and the punishment he tried to extract indirectly against Arthur Mabrey.

As for Mabrey, he'd escaped prison for the moment, but not punishment. If he really was insane, the Courts couldn't prosecute him. And if he was sane, he would have to spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital pretending to be crazy so as to avoid the Courts. Was that punishment enough?

Perhaps.

And if so, then the matter was settled. And Philippe would be king.

Clarisse sighed heavily and dropped her head into her hands. She was alone and lonely. She'd just been through a harrowing, terrifying experience and there was no one she could confide in. And now to discover that how completely her husband had betrayed his people and his sacred obligations to the law – it was almost more than she could take. But she couldn't afford to crack. The Queen had to be strong – had to keep it together.

Ever since the kidnapping, her sleep had been plagued with nightmares. Over and over she relived the ordeal, her captivity, and the awful desolation of thinking Joseph was dead, and now Rupert chose to leave her with this.

Anger burned inside her. None of this should have happened. Clarisse wanted to scream. She wanted to do something, anything, to hurt Rupert like he'd hurt her. He may have faced justice of a sort for his crimes against the rest of the world, but there was no justice for his crimes against her.

She concentrated her thoughts on Joseph. She needed to see him – to talk to him. He was the only person she could be completely honest with. And she needed that now more than ever. But what would his return mean for him? He would sacrifice himself, again, if need be. She thought she lost him once. And she could easily lose him again.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh God, oh God, oh God!" The letter crumpled in her convulsing hand and she threw it towards the unlit fireplace. Unable to sit still any longer, she began to pace the room. Her jumbled thoughts began to beat a mantra into her head. 'It could happen again. It could happen again.'

Joseph would always be in danger as long as he was with her. Before the attack she had purposefully ignored the danger he lived with. There was no ignoring it now. She couldn't face the thought of losing him. Not now. Not ever.

With Rupert she'd shared a marriage, a bed, and children, but they'd never had the connection that she had with Joseph – a man she'd never shared more than a few kisses with. The attraction she felt with Joseph was strong – and present almost from the first day they'd met - but wasn't why she loved him. Evidently his feelings for her were deeper than just physical desire as well. There were any number of times he could have seduced his queen if that's what he had wished.

But he hadn't tried it. Joseph told her he loved her. And yet, despite her awareness of his love and her acknowledgment of her own feelings, she was asking him to return to her in the capacity of an employee. An employee who's duties would someday likely rip the two of them apart forever.

She couldn't let that happen.

Cold, hard resolve washed over her. Clarisse glanced over at the rumpled paper of Rupert's confession. She crossed the room and picked it up, smoothing it against her chest. She sat down at her writing desk and contemplated the sheets laid out in front of her. After a few moments, she sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed and fingers steepled under her chin.

Within an hour she had formulated a plan. It wasn't perfect, but it would work. It had to work.

She rose from the desk and locked Rupert's letter in her private wall safe. Feeling somewhat better, Clarisse made her way into her bedroom, intending to take a nap. Perhaps she would dream this time of a bearded Spaniard with warm brown eyes instead of her usual nightmares. Perhaps.

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_A/N One chapter to go. Sorry about the delay in postings. I hadn't finished the ending before I started posting. I think I just don't want to be done! Thanks again for the reviews - they are wonderful and make me want to write more stories. _


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N Well. This is it. I've had a ton of fun writing this and I've been ecstatic over all your reviews. Thank you for sticking with me. It took a while to finish this last chapter. Thanks to marjorienescio for all your help on editing this! I need all the help I can get. I still don't own Clarisse and Joe, although their people told my people that life would be more...interesting...if they were a Weirdo property rather than a Disney one. _

_Thanks again - I hope you enjoy this!_

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When the doctor came by to examine Joseph the next morning, he found his patient fully clothed, sitting impatiently on the side of the bed with a packed bag on the floor. Joe wasn't taking any answer other the one he wanted to hear.

The doctor pronounced his patient impatient and incorrigible, but agreed to release Joseph – without restriction. Within an hour, Joseph Romero was back at the palace. Back at home.

Shades, who'd been waiting in the parking lot while the doctor examined Joe one last time, was still answering questions from his boss as they walked into through the massive front entry of the castle. Joseph couldn't suppress a grin as his eyes swept in the direction of the sound of heels on a staircase.

It was Charlotte.

She all but skipped to the bottom of the staircase and grabbed Joseph, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Finally! It's so good to have you home, Joe! Nothing has been the same without you here."

Within moments, the entry hall was full of security guards and household staff. Everyone was talking and laughing at once, and the hall was filled with exuberance. It seemed that Charlotte wasn't the only one who felt that something had been completed when Joseph walked through the palace doors once again.

Grateful for the warm welcome, Joseph made the rounds and spoke to as many as he could. The chef assured him that lunch was going to be an event in the world of comfort cuisine – all his favorites were on the menu.

As the crowd began to thin, Joseph managed to pull Charlotte to the side. "How is she?" he asked. His eyes kept stealing back to the staircase as he listened to Charlotte's reply. The Queen had instructed Charlotte to convey her apologies for not being available to greet Joseph when he returned. She was stuck in a meeting, but requested that he relax and stay off duty for the day. 'Settle in' had been her instruction to him. She would call as soon as she was free so that she could greet him properly.

Joseph smiled to himself as he followed Charlotte back up stairs, headed for his rooms. He had no interest in a 'proper' greeting from Clarisse Renaldi. He much preferred her improper persona – the one that laughed and joked with him when no one else was watching.

As he day wore on and there was no word from Clarisse, Joseph began to feel a little uneasy. Under the pretense of checking out staff schedules so he'd know where to start the next day, Joseph perused the security monitors and coverage logs for the morning. Clarisse had indeed been tied up in meetings. For the most part. Joseph sighed and tried to be patient. Finally, later in the afternoon, the phone in his room rang. Charlotte told him the Queen requested his presence in her office.

He knocked and was granted entry. At first he didn't see her. He'd expected her to be at her desk, slogging her way through mountains of paperwork. Instead she was standing off to the side, gazing out the window at her gardens. Her hands were knotted in front of her as they often were when she was worried or nervous. Joseph made sure the door was fully shut before addressing her.

However, before he could speak, she was moving swiftly back to her desk and motioning him to a chair across from her. "Please be seated Joseph. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to meet you earlier. It's been a hectic day." She smiled brightly at him yet it was strangely unsettling rather than reassuring. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he answered carefully. She was giving off some strange vibes and for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't able to read her.

Clarisse cleared her throat and looked down at the papers strewn on her desk. Then she met his eye across the expanse of the desk. "I have some good news for you," she said and smiled again.

Again Joseph felt like her smile was concealing something. He was more confused than ever. "I'm glad to hear that," he said slowly.

Clarisse leaned back into her desk chair and looked down at her hands which were steepled in front of her. "I've been thinking about how I can express my…appreciation for what you did for me, Joseph." She glanced up at him as she said his name. Her voice warmed perceptibly as she continued. "There are no words to express my gratitude for what you risked. I am very humbled by your actions."

Joseph smiled at her. "You are worth it."

She blushed and dropped her eyes.

"I would do it again in a heart beat," he said, dropping his voice a notch. Her expression changed as his words hung in the air. She drew a breath and seemed to withdraw from him again.

"I know you are not someone who does his job expecting reward, but clearly you have gone above and beyond anything that could have been expected of you. Therefore, I am very pleased to bestow what reward I can upon you. Nothing I have to give could ever fully express my gratitude. But I would like to try." She managed to meet his gaze again at this point, drawing her already perfect posture into ramrod-straight precision .

"I plan to knight you, Joseph. I want to bestow one of the crown's estates on you. You will become Sir Joseph Romero, the Baron of Keniston," she finished triumphantly.

Joseph stared at her open-mouthed. She smiled understandingly and said, "It will be wonderful, won't it? You'll be able to do whatever you want – hunting, fishing, traveling. Keniston is not far from the palace grounds and we'll see you often and --."

"You're sending me away?" he interrupted her, his voice disturbingly quiet. The odd feeling he'd had during this entire meeting had coalesced as he understood the meaning of her words. "This is your idea of reward, Clarisse? To banish me? Why?"

"Banish you? Oh, Joseph, no – you don't understand! We would still see each other, but you wouldn't have to bother with all the problems of your job any longer. It will be better – you'll see!" Her eyes were somewhat fearful as she tried to convince him.

"What is going on, Clarisse?" Joseph asked. "Have I done something wrong? Why are you suddenly so desperate to be rid of me?"

She backed away from the desk and stood up. "I'm sorry you find this so distasteful, Joseph. I want you to have this – you shouldn't have to be my bodyguard any longer. You should live a life of leisure – you've more than earned it. I – I don't want you to be my bodyguard any longer." Her voice faltered somewhat as though she were struggling to sound convincing.

Joseph stood as well. "I don't believe this," he said darkly as he leaned over the desk. "You no longer want my services as your bodyguard. So instead of firing me, you're banishing me under cover of some kind of reward." He shook his head ruefully as he stood straight and backed away from her. "I thought we were better friends than that, Your Majesty." He'd never made her title sound more like a barrier between them before.

"No! That's not it at all, Joseph. Please understand." Her expression was stricken and she reached towards him tentatively.

"I do understand. I understand all too well." Joseph felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut. He backed away. Despite the feelings he thought they shared, she wanted to banish him from her side. She'd lost confidence in his abilities. She didn't trust him any longer. He had to get out of this room before he completely lost it. His hand was on he doorknob by the time she'd come out from behind her desk and crossed the room to grab for his arm.

"Please! Don't go, Joseph," she pleaded softly.

"Isn't that what you want, Clarisse?" he asked, not looking at her.

"No! I want to be with you. Always with you," she said. He looked at her then and she almost gasped at the pain she read in his expression. Pain that she had caused.

"So, in order for you to be with me, you need to set me up as some sort of false aristocrat or something? That's why you want to set me up with this little fiefdom of yours? You can't afford to have feelings for a mere commoner? That hardly makes this situation any better, Your Majesty." Again her title came between them – a wall that stood hard and fast.

Clarisse took a shuddering breath.

"I can't let anything happen to you," she admitted softly. He stared at the door, his hand still on the knob. "If you stay, if someone attacked me again, what would happen to you? I can't let you continue to put yourself at risk like that," she pleaded with him.

He looked at her now, his eyes wary. "What are you talking about?" he asked, somewhat perplexed.

"If something happened to you again, Joseph, I couldn't take it. I can't watch you die. I can't live without you."

"Yet you're sending me away?" His voice trembled ever so slightly. "That makes no sense."

"Not away! We would still see each other often. I just can't take the chance of losing you. I – I thought you were dead and it was…I didn't want to live, Joseph. I knew I had to survive – for my children, for my country - but had it not been for that, I wouldn't have cared. If you were dead, I would have died too."

Joseph's expression softened. He turned towards her and took her face in his hands. As he rubbed his thumbs across her cheeks, she leaned into his touch. Joseph looked around the room. He could hear the phone on Charlotte's desk ring and then her voice as she spoke to whoever was calling. Steps echoed down the hallway outside the office as people came and went. He thought for a moment, then released her and stepped back, his hands sliding down her arms to cup her elbows. She opened her eyes and looked at him questioningly.

"Come with me," he said somewhat gruffly. "We're not going to talk about this here."

She nodded and brushed the tips of her fingers across her eyelashes, swiping at tears that now threatened to fall. Joseph opened the door and pulled her through it along with him. Charlotte looked up questioningly, whatever she'd been about to say died on her lips as she looked between the stricken faces before her.

"Charlotte, Her Majesty is taking the rest of the day off. She has some, uh, personal issues she needs to resolve."

"_I_ have personal issues? That's hardly fair," Clarisse said exasperatedly, yanking her hand back from his. She had composed herself a bit and she leveled her gaze at Charlotte. "Joseph thinks I'm working myself to death. I hardly believe that qualifies as a 'personal issue'," she threw him an irritated look "but I have agreed to leave my office for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Please notify the staff that I will be…" Her voice trailed off as she realized she had no idea where she would be.

"Spending the afternoon at the lake house – napping and fishing," Joseph filled in smoothly. He gripped her firmly by the elbow and propelled her towards the door.

"Joseph! I don't fish!" she admonished as he swept her out of the office suite.

Charlotte contemplated the retreating couple for a long moment before she picked up the phone and reconnected with the caller she had just put on hold. "I'm sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, but Her Majesty has just left for the day." She listened briefly. "I don't expect her to return until sometime tomorrow, sir. Her Head of Security returned to the palace to find her working herself too hard and has insisted she spend the rest of the day resting and relaxing." Another pause, then she smiled into the phone. "Yes, sir, I believe he was indeed going to accompany her." And then, "I couldn't agree more, sir. I'll have her call you tomorrow." She was still smiling as she hung up the phone and glanced out the window at the lake sparkling in the distance. "Good luck, Joe," she whispered.

Clarisse couldn't still the fluttering in her stomach as Joseph led her down the hall, down the stairs and finally out into the late afternoon sunshine. The golf cart the staffed used to drive between out-buildings on the estate sat parked in its customary space near the side entrance. Joseph handed her into it and waited on her to fasten the seat belt before starting the engine. They made the drive down to the lake in silence. Clarisse kept looking over at her driver, but he kept his eyes steadfastly on the path and never looked her way. From the twitch of the muscles in his jaw, she got the distinct impression that he was upset with her.

Finally they pulled to a stop in front of the small guest house that fronted the clear water of the lake. Still without speaking, he walked to the door and quickly scanned the room inside before motioning Clarisse to enter. She moved past him, aware of their closeness as she passed him in the doorway. She stopped in the middle of the room and turned to look at him. She spread her hands questioningly as he closed the door and turned to face her.

"Now what, Joseph?"

"What do you want, Clarisse? Do you want me to quit my job? Do you want to make me into someone who fits more closely with your status so you won't feel so guilty about your feelings for me? What?"

Clarisse wrapped her arms around herself tightly and tried not to turn away from him. The directness of his questions, not to mention the way his eyes impaled her made her distinctly uneasy. Her natural inclination was to hide behind diplomatic dialogue, but she knew he wouldn't let her. She stared down at the floor for a moment, then pulled her eyes up to meet his. She took a deep breath.

"I meant what I said. I can't face the thought of losing you, Joseph. If something else happened, I know you would do anything to save me, not giving any thought to your own safety. You cannot die for me, Joseph. Please don't leave me in a position to be responsible for that. I thought that you would accept the reward and we could still be together without you being in danger anymore."

Joseph stared at her silently for a few moments. "When was the last time you saw Lady Caroline, Clarisse?"

"Caroline? What does she have to do with this?"

"She's your best friend from school, is she not? And she lives on an estate not ten miles from the palace. Her husband is a Member of Parliament. Her daughter was at college with Pierre. When did you last see her?"

Clarisse ran a hand distractedly through her hair as she frowned in thought. "I don't know. Sometime last year, I think. At the Christmas ball?"

Joseph nodded and crossed the room to stand in front of her. "I don't want to be just your friend. I don't want to be shut out of your life. I care for you. I want to be with you every minute of every day."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he reached out and placed his fingers against her lips. "Don't you think I should get to decide what happens with my life? If I chose to lose it for you, isn't that my right?"

"Please don't leave me, Joseph," she finally managed to whisper.

"Never, Clarisse," he responded as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

One simple kiss…

...

She lost it. There was no other way to describe what happened when they kissed. It was not their first kiss, certainly, but there was some kind of desperate freedom in it this time. He felt the passion coursing through her, passion which he mirrored. As their bodies molded to one another he wrapped her with his arms and lifted her off the ground. He was rewarded by melodious laughter. Buoyed by that reaction, he twirled around then swept her up into his arms and carried her upstairs to the bedroom.

Something clicked in his head and he stopped before laying her down on the bed before them. He looked into her face. "Is this what you want, Clarisse?"

There was no hesitation. She looked deeply into his eyes. "More than anything, Joseph," she replied softly. He kissed her again, and then laid her on the bed. As she watched, he slowly disrobed in front of her. He reveled in her blushes as her eyes traveled his body, drinking in the view.

Her breathing changed as he made his way to the bed. Her heart thudded inside her chest and she pulled more oxygen into her body. She lay back against the pillows as he lowered himself onto the bed, onto her. His lips descended onto hers as he lowered his weight onto her body. She clung tightly to his shoulders, taking the kiss deeper.

Finally, needing to breathe, he pulled back. He lifted himself into a sitting position, straddling her body. Her hands slid down his back to the sides of his thighs. She whimpered softly at the loss of contact.

"Mmmm, your kisses are magnificent, Clarisse, but you're wearing far too many clothes." As he spoke he trailed a finger down the side of her face. His smile widened as his finger reached the top buttons of her blouse. His hands made quick work of them and he pulled the fabric open, exposing her lace covered chest to his view for the first time. "Oh, God, Clarisse," he moaned. His hands made their way over her body and finished pulling her clothing away, freeing her body to more exploration.

Those hands were magical – sometimes trailing so lightly over her skin that it felt like a feather dragging weightlessly across her body and sometimes heavier, probing and massaging, and branding her with his touch. She came alive in his hands and, to his immense delight, she was soon touching and tasting him just as freely as he had her.

This was the woman he knew and loved. Even now, as she lost herself in their shared passion, she remained elegant and intense. Her movements were as smooth and beautiful in bed as they were on the dance floor. Her inhibitions fell away as she relaxed into their lovemaking. Soon Joseph was moaning and squirming as her lips familiarized themselves with the crevices and planes of his chest and neck.

With each movement and shift Clarisse made, the harder he had to fight to maintain any kind of control over himself. She could feel the evidence of his heated arousal. A knowing smile curved her lips as the knowledge of the power she held with him dawned in her awareness. Joseph's need for her was growing to almost uncontrollable levels.

When at long last she took him inside her body he felt sure he would explode into her right then. He tensed and she felt it. She stilled – not moving. The moment passed, he was able to relax somewhat. He opened his eyes and smiled up at her. She looked fully into his eyes, leaned forward slightly and grinned a wicked grin. He thought he knew everything there was to know about her. He'd memorized her every expression. Her eyes revealed her thoughts to him. There were no secrets she could keep from him. But he'd never seen this look before. It was almost frightening.

Clarisse seemed to know the effect she had on him as she slowly licked her lips. She leaned even closer to him, releasing him slightly from his silken prison. He lifted himself on his elbows, arching to meet her lips with his own. She pulled back, keeping the tiniest space between them.

"Are you sure you're ready, love?" she hissed. She began small tight movements atop the head of his shaft. "Really ready?" she asked.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" he moaned.

"Once we do this, there is no going back." She smiled her wicked smile again and all he could do was throw his head back in groaning protest.

"We're way past the point of ne return, Clarisse. Pl-please!" he stammered as she continued to tease him with the twitching heat that refused to envelop him fully. He groaned loudly and used his arms for leverage to thrust up into her. She anticipated the move and moved with him, not allowing the penetration he sought. He moaned and fell back.

"You're killing me, woman!"

She laughed - a deep, husky sound. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. "You are mine, Joseph. Forever. I will never let you go." With that she seated herself fully on him, eliciting and a sigh of deep appreciation from her lover.

He thrust upward into her and felt her muscles grip him, pulling him even further inside. She rocked her body against his, drawing him in and out, stroking herself deeply with his body. She milked him, used him to pleasure herself and he was lost. He tried to watch her, fascinated by the play of delight across her face with each new thrust. As they moved together, his hands trailed down her body, following the curves, molding to the shape of her hips, her breasts. At last she leaned into his body as she ground her hips against him. The twisting motion drove bolts of electricity through him and he knew he could hold out no longer. Finally he gripped her shoulders, stilling her movement as he made one last hard thrust and crashed through the barrier, emptying himself into her.

When he could open his eyes again, he found her staring down at him. She laughed delightedly at the look on his face as he tried to focus. "Do you love me, Joseph?" she purred.

"My God! I adore you, Clarisse." His voice was thick and slurred.

"Mmmm… I love the sound of that." She ran her fingers down the side of his face. Her gaze softened and she contemplated him tenderly for a long moment. "I love you too, Joseph."

He smiled at her as he reached up and pulled her down to him. Their lips melded as Clarisse stretched her body out along Joseph's. He wrapped his arms around her torso, taking her full weight onto his chest. His shoulder tinged painfully, but he held her tightly.

"I love you, Joseph," she said again, as if surprised by how the words felt leaving her mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she murmured into his chest. Clarisse wasn't sure how long they lay there, bodies spent, gasping for breath. Eventually she slipped off to one side, freeing him from her weight, even as she draped a leg over his hips and burrowed her head into his chest so that they lay together, entwined in each others arms.

"Clarisse." He whispered her name again and again as his lips touched her face, her hair, her neck.

She reached up and took his face in her hands. He could feel the slight trembling in her body as her eyes bored deep into his. Warm brown eyes met deep blue ones as he returned her gaze with an equal intensity. "I can't live without you, Joseph. I can't live without this. I need you – I love you." She sighed. "What are we going to do?"

Joseph didn't speak for a long time. Her simple admission moved him deeply. And how, exactly, were they going to make this work? He couldn't live without more of her, either. Blinking back unwelcome tears that stung his eyes, Joseph directed his gaze out the French doors and over the balcony that opened onto a glorious view of the lake. 'There must be a way,' he thought.

The sun was beginning it's descent across the afternoon sky, changing the angle of the light that struck the placid water. He marveled at the colors reflected on the surface. Clarisse shifted slightly and brushed her lips across his chest. He smiled and pressed a kiss to her hair.

Suddenly he gripped her shoulder tightly and half sat up, drawing a sound of protest from the woman sprawled across his body. "Clarisse! It's time you started painting again!"

"Excuse me?" She lifted her head and looked at him quizzically.

"Painting! Clarisse! That's how we'll make it work!" He grinned at her.

"I have no idea what you are talking about Joseph. I haven't painted in years. What does that have to do with anything?"

Joseph took her face in his hands and pressed an ardent kiss to her lips, then rolled out of bed. He crossed the room and threw open the French doors.

"You've been working too hard, Your Majesty," he said with mock formality. "You need to find a hobby to indulge in as a means of handling your stress. You are going to start painting again and the lake house – with that view and this natural light – is going to make a fabulous studio." He gestured towards the balcony, as excited as a school boy. "Of course, since there are no cameras here, you'll have to have a guard with you."

Clarisse sat up just enough that the remaining bedclothes fell away from her upper body. She leaned back on her elbows, apparently oblivious to Joseph's appreciative stare. Looking past him, she studied the view beyond. Slowly a smiled turned up the corners of her mouth. "You are a genius, my love. Now come back to bed!"

He did just that.

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When Clarisse made it back to her office the next day, she had Charlotte schedule a complete checkup with her doctor.

"Are…are you alright, Your Majesty?" Charlotte inquired timidly.

"I'm fine, dear," Clarisse assured her warmly. "I'm just doing this to keep peace with Joseph. He insists that all this stress is getting to me. I agreed to see what the doctor has to say about it."

The doctor didn't realize he'd been manipulated when his patient suggested that perhaps her chronic tiredness and frequent headaches were due to over work. She wondered if some regular time off, spent working on a hobby, might help? He assured it that it would and when he left after their visit, congratulated himself on convincing her that she needed to relax more.

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Clarisse finished her first study of the lake-scape almost a year later. Thus began Her Majesty's years long study of the landscape that could be seen from the lake house balcony. She painted it in every season and every light. The paintings weren't masterpieces, but they were generally respectable.

Joseph insisted on framing the paintings and having them hung in the hallway outside her office. Each time she finished a new piece, he would replace the previous painting with the new work; his reasoning being that when he wasn't inside the office watching her in the flesh, he could stand on post in the hallway and enjoy the memories the paintings evoked.

None of the staff seemed curious about the fact that the Queen's landscapes took so long to complete. And everyone had to admit that even though she was inordinately slow as an artist, the process seemed to have worked wonders on her disposition.

When Queen Clarisse finally left the throne in favor of her successor, the curator of the Pyrus museum contacted her and asked for permission to do an exhibit of her paintings. Clarisse laughingly refused, stating that no one could possibly be interested in her less than spectacular work. The curator begged her to reconsider, citing the funds that could be generated for support of the museum for an exhibition such as this.

At first the former Queen demurred again, but then her husband leaned down and whispered into her ear. She immediately ducked her head, and cleared her throat. When she regained her composure, she delighted the curator by agreeing to the exhibition.

The usual crowd of Genovian dignitaries and the press corps turned out for a gala event celebrating the opening of the new exhibit. The former Queen had been married less than a year, and her relationship with her new husband was still the stuff of gossip and speculation amongst the assembled guests. Towards the end of the evening, Clarisse managed to secret herself with Joseph in an alcove, thankful for a few short moments away from prying eyes.

"Let's get out of here, Darling," she whispered, lips grazing his ear.

He drew her close. "My thoughts exactly." He ran a hand down her back, over her hip, then squeezed her thigh. She murmured in appreciation. "What are you going to paint this time?"

She laughed – throaty and sultry. "I'm through with painting for a while, Joseph. It takes too much time away from more pleasant activities." Her fingers toyed with the hair ringing the back of his head.

"Well, everyone needs a hobby," he said, then buried his face in her neck.


End file.
